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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058416">I Don't Do Partners</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidekickjoey/pseuds/sidekickjoey'>sidekickjoey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nerves, Origin Story, Owen is handsome and Curt is just trying his best, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Tags May Change, This is an excuse to write their origin story, We love these two falling in love, Will I have these two pine after each other? You bet, Will someone get hurt? Maybe, Work In Progress, kind of?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:55:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>64,285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058416</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidekickjoey/pseuds/sidekickjoey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Curt Mega has always worked alone, and for good reason. Cynthia Houston, however, needs her best agent to stay alive. This is the story of how one decision changed the course of both Curt's career and life, and how that career and life shifted because of one Owen Carvour.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Owen Carvour &amp; Agent Curt Mega, Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Beginnings, Beginnings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everyone! This is a little something I've been working on since I first watched Spies earlier this year. I'm really excited to show you all this and push myself as a writer to make a multi-chapter fic. Right now, I have a few chapters written up, so updates will be once a week. However, I'll tell you when you might expect that to fluctuate a bit. Please let me know what you think in the comments, and as always, enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> “A <em> partner? </em>”</p><p>Curt balked at Cynthia, his jaw agape and his brows scrunched together. Curt Mega did not <em> do </em> partners. He did not <em> need </em> partners! He was the best special agent America had to offer. Even good ol’ 007 would say the same. His track record blew everyone in the American Secret Service out of the water. He even helped foil tons of plots to kill both local <em> and </em> foreign dignitaries! None of that was with a partner. He did not <em> need </em> anyone to tell him how to do that.</p><p>If he did not know Cynthia any better, he’d think she was trying to insult him. Curt Mega with a partner<em>.</em> <em>Pfft.</em> He was more likely to drop everything and start kissing her than to accept having to go by someone else’s rules. It was not his style. And besides, how many times had he read or seen on TV or in plays a sidekick being the downfall of a leading man? He did not want that same fate. He deserved better. Shaking his head, he brushed Cynthia off with a flick of his hand.</p><p>“You’re not convincing me to get a partner. Sorry.”</p><p>“Quite fucking bold of you to assume you have a say in this, Mega.” Cynthia's voice bristled like a sharp gust of wind in winter. “You work for me, remember? The American fucking government? What orders we hand you, you must take. Right now, your orders are to suck up your pride for once in your goddamn life and accept a fucking partner.”</p><p>Curt snapped his head up. “It’s kind of hard to accept orders when I don’t understand why I need them! My record is spotless, Cynthia. I’ve destroyed more KBG agents and mobsters than any other spy you know. Hell, I practically had the entirety of Portugal eating out of the palm of my hands on my last mission! They <em> still </em>send thank you notes to headquarters for our service’s work!”</p><p>“Get a damn frame for them then, I don’t care.” She rolled her eyes. A middle finger met Curt, coupled with a glare. “Your past victories mean nothing, Mega. Not today. This mission is not like your others. If you do not have proper backup from an intelligent right hand, you will die a horrible bloody death I’ll have to do a shit ton of boring paperwork for. Not might, <em> will.</em> Consider yourself lucky the government agrees and is willing to not send you to an early grave.”</p><p>“As if Eisenhower and his puppets care about my grave.”</p><p>“Look, the choice is yours.” Cynthia lit a cigarette and placed her feet on her desk, each heel slamming the wood with force and causing Curt to jump. “Take the fucking partner, don’t burn the bridge you’ve somehow crafted with the White House, and live to see another day. Or, perish. I could care less.”</p><p>Curt huffed into the still air around them. Obviously, he did not want to die. No one did. He saw humanity as a species full of life, even if he did have to take it from time to time, and they as a species would always continue trying to survive. <em> Curt </em> would always try to survive. It was required of his career to do so. </p><p>However, something about the idea of a partner rubbed him worse than the thought of death. Perhaps it was his fear of letting someone in too deep. An aspect of partnerships was being on close terms with your partner. There could be no secrets, for secrets left room for weakness and weakness would lead to certain death nine times out of ten. Curt Mega was a man of many secrets. Some of his secrets were more dangerous than others to let out in the current climate he lived in. Cynthia did not know it, but one of his secrets could have him fired on the spot. Rejected by the very government she said loved him. Thrown out on the street like some petulant dog. To raise the stakes even higher, it just so happened to be the most integral secret to his personality and being. If any one of those got out, especially that one, he was just as good as dead. The resulting fear and shame that would come with them would be a fate worse than death.</p><p>Curt was not one to ever betray a colleague, but if secrets got out and desperate times called for measures...well, he would hardly bat an eye.</p><p>“Is there no other option?”</p><p>A large puff of smoke blew into his face, giving him about as much confirmation as Cynthia Houston was willing to divulge. Curt coughed as if he had never smelled the substance before, as if he had not had a cigarette minutes prior to stepping into her office. It agitated Cynthia. She huffed. “Make it work, pussy. Your partner’s been waiting for you at Olivero’s restaurant downtown.” </p><p>“Wait, one was already chosen?” </p><p>It was not that Curt was not relieved to have the burden of choosing his partner taken away. He hated handling semantics. Having that off his shoulder was nice and would free up time for more important thoughts. However, he thought he at least would have been allowed to throw some input into the matter. This person would after all work with him for no doubt a few months to a year, if the large file Cynthia had handed him earlier meant anything. A little suggestion listened to here or there could have been nice. Then again, what about his job was ever what <em> he </em> wanted? Curt sighed. </p><p>“How long has he been waiting?”</p><p>“Thirty,” she said. “Didn’t know I’d have to brief the poor sap of an impending meltdown from you when I set it up. Might want to stop and get him an apology. Maybe wine, who the fuck knows.”</p><p>“Always the thoughtful one, you are.” </p><p>Cynthia blinked, unimpressed. It was not the first time Curt had tried to use humor to deflect her sarcasm and irritability, and it certainly would not be the last. At this point, he wondered if it even made her feel anything to hear him bite back anymore. “It’s a talent. Now get out of my sight and don’t return until the mission is completed or you’re in a body bag. Either way.”</p><p>“Yes, Cynthia.”</p><p>“And Curt?” Curt, who had made his way to the door, turned before his hand reached the knob. Carrying a hefty sigh with her, Cynthia dragged her legs off of her desk, crossed the room, and returned to his side with a pamphlet. It was smaller than his mission briefing and, instead of holding the plain beige covering his folders usually did, it was a deep maroon color. He looked at it, confused. “His name is Owen Carvour. I thought you’d like to know a little about the guy before you barreled into Olivero’s unannounced like some rabid bull.”</p><p>An act of kindness. Interesting. One nod Cynthia’s way and Curt was gone with his pamphlets, ready to head out on his mission and whatever adventure this ‘partner’ would bring him. He pushed through her office’s doors and began out to the parking lot.</p><p><em> Owen. </em> That name was not familiar, Curt noticed. He did not like to interact much with the network of spies he shared a country with, but he knew many of their names. Unless he was a new spy, Curt had never come across him before. His blood ran a bit cold at that thought. New. The American government would not pin him against a newcomer for what Cynthia said otherwise was a death wish, would they? Was this some setup? Was that why Cynthia was being the way she was being, or was he reading too much into the whole thing? Curt swallowed. He walked out to his car, tossed his mission info on the passenger seat, and took a second to dive into all things Owen in hopes it would ease his mind of the subject.</p><p>The first thing he came face-to-face with was a pair of brown eyes.</p><p>Not just any brown eyes. No, Curt had seen plenty of brown eyes through interrogations and galas, and these ones were not the same. These eyes were deeper. Fierce. The kind of eyes one could both get lost in but also feel impending dread upon seeing. Curt felt both in the moment Owen’s headshot stared him down. If he was coming into contact with those eyes, he would be in danger. One of his most guarded secrets would be in danger as well.</p><p>Curt shifted in his seat and pushed the photo aside.</p><p>A little light reading answered a few of his main questions about Owen up front. He had never met Owen before because Owen was not from the American Secret Service -- a more comforting situation, thank God. He was MI6 property. That Curt could handle. He also could handle that he was regarded as perhaps their most worthy and capable spy. A few clippings from internal memos sang his praises, calling him a ‘sharp-shooter with a sharp tongue’ and ‘a man with foresight beyond human capabilities.’ Curt wondered how much he paid the writers to say such things. He also wondered how it would be to sit in on an interrogation with such a man if it turned out those words were true. Just those eyes alone could compel him to share state secrets the moment their owner asked...</p><p>Curt shifted again, clearing his throat.</p><p>In addition to the look and the quotes, Owen had quite the track record to back himself up. Just a few months ago, he had single handedly stopped an entire underground plot to assassinate the young Queen Elizabeth II herself. An impressive feat, Curt noted. Even more impressive when considering he apparently had been cornered at one point in the mission by no less than ten armed individuals. Perhaps ‘sharp shooter’ really had not been an exaggeration. Perhaps that was why the secret service thrust them together on this mission. Curt made a quick note never to wrong the man, at least not intentionally, before tossing the file with its companion and starting up his car. He revved the engine and went right in the direction of the restaurant, shades covering his eyes. </p><p>
  <em> Well, here goes nothing. </em>
</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>Soft jazz played throughout the cozy brick restaurant. Olivero’s was known for its lively atmosphere, good food, and electric clientele. Families ate and laughed, couples needlessly shoved food at each other and divulged saucy secrets, individuals sat buried in books and bowls of pasta -- it was a right celebration of the mundane blessings of life. It made Curt’s hands clammy in his pockets as he entered. How was he supposed to find Owen, a man he had only seen in one photograph, in this bustling venue? <em> Especially </em> without him sitting in plain sight? His jaw clenched. </p><p>Pulling down his shades and sliding them into his coat, not too far from his gun, Curt approached the hostess. She was a smaller girl not unlike Barb, with bright red hair and shining emerald eyes. Her face lit up upon seeing him as if she had been waiting for him for years. He gave a closed-lip smile in return, not wanting to encourage anything. He had a partner to meet, not a desire to end up in a one-sided marriage. </p><p>“Sorry to bother you miss, but I’m meeting someone.” Curt did not think for one second that Owen would be dumb enough to alert someone, even a civilian, of his location, but it was worth a shot. It was not exactly like he had an array of other options. “Has a Mr. Owen Carvour been here?”</p><p>The once blinding smile of the girl faded to something more cordial. Reserved. Slightly disappointed. She nodded and dove right into her reservation papers, scanning the names and numbers listed. To his shock, his inquiry proved fruitful. Owen Carvour was in fact there, ready and waiting. <em> Some secret agent, he is </em> , Curt thought <em> . Divulging a location is rookie material. Is he crazy? </em> Holding her hand forward, the hostess ushered Curt back. She brought him just far enough through the restaurant for him to see Owen’s placement before hurrying back to her post, and Curt was grateful. He needed a moment to take in the sight before him, anyway.</p><p>The real Owen Carvour was <em> dashing</em>. </p><p>Not in a conventionally attractive way that one would see on a film in Hollywood. No, it was a way all his own. The golden hour of the sun hit his skin and chocolate-brown hair, admittedly styled longer than in his photo. It made him look like a god. Also godly was his outfit. He wore a long sleeve white shirt which clung close to his body in all the right places. It was matched with black suspenders and black slacks, giving him a simplistic yet demure appearance. Hanging off of his chair, a navy blue blazer dangled and gave the promise that such a sight could be made even <em> better</em>. A low, long breath escaped Curt at the thought. He was so happy Owen had not looked up from the crossword he was doing, or grabbed his glass of wine to take a sip, because the sort of sight he might have seen would have been shameful. It would have blown his cover for sure.</p><p>Collecting himself the best he could, Curt straightened his own tan blazer and walked forward. He went right to the edge of his soon-to-be chair and paused. Owen did not look phased, but Curt did notice a slight pause in his filling out of a word. An acknowledgement. Taking that as an acceptance of his presence, he cleared his throat. This did a bit more to rouse the man. Curt watched Owen pause, set his pen down, and gaze up right at him. To Curt’s dismay, those brown eyes were just as beautiful as he’d imagined. No, <em> better</em>. The glow the sun gave them took the breath right out of Curt’s lungs. He could have sworn he noticed a glimmer in them, but it quickly faded as a more professional aura took over the man. Back straightening, he gestured down at Curt’s chair and invited him to sit. Curt took it with a gulp. </p><p>
  <em> This is going to be a long few months. </em>
</p><p>“Agent Mega,” he spoke evenly, gazing back down at his crossword. “I’m pleased you finally found me.”</p><p>“A-Agent Carvour.” Curt cursed himself for sounding so shaken. What was he, a giddy school girl with a crush? He needed to be a spy, dammit! “I’m, uh, surprised you gave the hostess your name.”</p><p>Owen hummed. “I feel I should be offended you needed to ask her. Are you not America’s greatest? A sharp-minded sleuth?”</p><p>“I-I am!” It came out like it would when he was twelve and getting his first few chest hairs, and it was enough to make Curt cringe. He prayed to any deity listening that Owen would not notice or care, but they knew he did. Anyone who was listening in nearby did. <em> So much for a good first impression. </em> The poor sap was probably contemplating how many ways he could kill his superiors for sticking them together by this point -- and that wasn’t even <em> counting </em> the rude lateness. “It’s a big place, ‘s all. Asking was most efficient, especially since I’m behind schedule. My apologies for that, by the way. My superiors are not always the best on time management.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“So, you still never answered my question.”</p><p>“Simple sport, ol’ chap,” he said, finally pausing to give attention to his wine -- a deep red one. Was it a Merlot? Cabernet? Malbec? Curt was inclined to learn. “Any extra guests to dinner could prove a great training exercise for the two of us.”</p><p>“Or deadly for all these civilians.”</p><p>Owen gazed at Curt over his glass. “I would never allow that to happen, Mega. Unlike some, I have a reputation to uphold.” </p><p>In a moment of daring and unknown confidence, Curt challenged Owen’s gaze. His body unconsciously leaned in, practically begging a rise out of Owen. He noted Owen sizing him up, but the observation was quickly shoved aside in favor of words. “Can I not also worry about my reputation?”</p><p>“I’ll let you know after we complete our first task together.” His sass bit, and Curt found himself recalling Cynthia of all people. Of course she was who he had to think about while a handsome guy like Owen sat before him. Gritting his teeth, Curt chose to change the subject over his own pouring of wine. He did not give a damn if Owen paid for the bottle himself. He <em> deserved </em> it.</p><p>“So, you’re from across the pond?”</p><p>Owen blinked, and Curt realized that yes, his deflection was just as cheesy and stupid as he thought it had been when it left his mouth. Maybe he needed more than wine to calm his nerves. <em> If only that hostess came around again... </em></p><p>“And you’re from the Midwest, no?”</p><p>“I feel a long way from the fields.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I would imagine organized crime would choose a busier location than fields to call home. More distractions. More targets.”</p><p>“But, not more places to hide,” Curt added. “A place like New York has plenty of hideouts and venues for crime, sure, but you try finding a criminal in the middle of fields and fields of corn and wheat and whatever the fuck they grow out in the country. Damn near impossible,” he shook his head, moving to take a sip. As he did, he was shocked to see the slightest of smirks on Owen’s face. It froze him in place. That only made it grow wider, to his dismay. The glass returned to the table, unused. </p><p>For the next half hour, the push and pull of Curt’s conversation with Owen continued. Small facts were exchanged, Owen grew amused at Curt’s fumblings, and Curt blew through his share of wine faster than he cared to admit. By the time their food came, he was grateful for the chance to stuff his mouth with something other than garbled words and way-too-honest information. </p><p>Through it all, though, Owen had thankfully remained cordial. He did not point out when Curt’s flustered emotions bubbled to the top. He did not bite back with as much sass as he did at the start. He merely sat back and let him go on, only offering the occasional smirk as their conversation dove through hoop after conversational hoop. Maybe it was his way of taking notes. After all, the more Curt spoke, the more he learned about him. His weaknesses. His advantages. Maybe Curt was losing out by not doing the same with him. There was a point where he felt like perhaps taking the leap or apologizing over his shrimp scampi, but by the time his mouth finally was vacant, Owen had something of his own to say that snatched the moment away. <em> Figures</em>.</p><p>“Curt, you work alone, no?”</p><p>A pause. “Yes. I-I think I work best when left to my own devices out in the field. Why?”</p><p>“We need to discuss the rules of our arrangement,” Owen said. His eyes flickered between his dish and Curt, finally setting on the dish -- chicken parmesan. It looked and smelled delicious from Curt’s point of view. “This venture may span across months, and since you’ve never worked with someone, I want to make sure we are on the same page, so to speak. Anywhere we are not, we are weak. Understand?”</p><p>Curt nodded. He twirled a bit of his spaghetti around his fork and nudged it in Owen’s direction. “Agreed. Have any ground rules in mind, Carvour?” </p><p>“Communication. If we do not have constant communication, it will be our downfall.” Owen ran a hand through his hair and stared outside. For a moment, Curt wondered if that touched a nerve -- if Owen had a reason that was his first rule <em> other </em> than typical spy partner protocol. “When not together, I expect hourly check-ins. If I do not hear from you, I <em> will </em> come find you, and if I find you anything other than held for ransom, I <em> will </em> kill you myself.”</p><p>Curt swallowed hard. Once again, Owen Carvour made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Understood.”</p><p>“Also, we are to act upon our agreed plans and those plans alone. Changes get agents killed. I know your file prides you on improvisation, but improv does not cut it for partnerships.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>Owen glared. “Try it for yourself, Mega. Watch what happens.”</p><p>He sat back in his seat, eyes cast down. He no longer felt any inclination to do anything of the sort.</p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>“Most importantly,” Owen said, eyes so focused on Curt it hurt to avoid them, “no secrets. If either of us conceal information, it could get us killed, be it through interrogation or simple ignorance. I will not let something like that be what finally does me in. I expect you to feel the same. Can I trust that?”</p><p>Curt’s throat went dry. He could not trust that, as a matter of fact. No, if there was anything about Curt that Owen could trust, it would be that some secrets would <em> remain </em> withheld. If only he knew them! God, if only he knew. He would never ask something like this from Curt if he did. How could he ever convey that without generating unnecessary suspicion? </p><p>“Mega?”</p><p>Still looking away, Curt folded his hands on the table. “Anything that happens from here on out, I will tell you.”</p><p>“And from before?”</p><p>“Have I not been incredibly honest up to now? Whatever you need to know, you’ll know,” he assured, his tone cool and not at all as panicked as his insides felt. “I promise.”</p><p>He promised, but Owen did not look convinced. Licking his lips, he leaned forward and gazed up at Curt with a piercing stare. Curt could not help flinching at it, but he soon recovered. At least, he thought he did. To Owen, it looked like he experienced brief pain, but like always, it was brushed off. “Your past can come to haunt me just as much as it might haunt you if I do not know about it.”</p><p>“Then why aren’t you telling me about yours? You sound like you have a few skeletons in your closet. Why don’t I hear about them?” </p><p>It was another deflection, but unlike the first one, this one truly stuck. The Owen Curt had come to know as an observant and slightly cocky fellow grew quiet. His gaze fell. He began rubbing the inside of his palm with his thumb, looking almost nervous if Curt did not know any better. It was like he needed to bolt out of the room in the seconds that followed, but could not figure out which door would open and was being consumed by some demon from within. When his gaze returned, it was a lot less confident. If anything, he looked hurt. Weary. </p><p>Oh, Curt had <em> definitely </em> touched a nerve.</p><p>“We’ll operate on a need-to-know basis then,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “Agreed?”</p><p>“Owen-”</p><p>“<em>Agreed? </em>”</p><p>The pleading in the man’s voice before him melted Curt’s resolve. He felt compelled to agree. Owen had been right: their secrets could very well kill them both. But, if his secrets were any bit as demanding and dangerous as his, perhaps he had good reason to avoid them. Perhaps the day would come when they would come out. He did not know. What he did know was that the look of relief on Owen’s face as he stuck his hand out to agree was about the most wonderful sight he had seen in his few years of life, and that alone was enough to make him confident in dropping the subject for the time being. He offered a smile to diffuse the tension. Owen did, too. It was lesser and went away as fast as it came, but it was there. Curt was grateful. </p><p>“So, now that our rules are in place, where do we go next?”</p><p>Owen glanced around him before looking back at his food. He pushed his last piece of chicken around on it idly, most likely not wishing to draw much attention from passers by. “Tomorrow at noon, we fly out to Monaco. From there, we will meet with officials and our client for this mission at the capital. They will give us our next directions.”</p><p>“And until then?”</p><p>“We have a hotel prepared for us to rest at not far from here. Courtesy of MI6, if you were wondering.”</p><p>“How generous of them.”</p><p>Owen chuckled humorlessly. “Yes, how generous indeed.”</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>“We should move there soon to ensure all is proper before nightfall,” he continued, grabbing his coat. From it, he pulled out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the table. Curt blinked at it owlishly before turning his gaze up to Owen’s standing figure, now at his side. <em> Wow</em>, he looked tall. “Their surveillance is constant, but their help in procurement of better lodgings may be delayed and passed onto our backs if we wait too long.”</p><p>“We can’t have that.”</p><p>Owen shook his head and gestured for Curt to stand. When he did, rebuttoning his suit, he felt Owen’s eyes on him. Sure enough, the man was staring him down. Sharp. The gaze was almost predatory. It made Curt blush, despite himself. He rather liked that feeling, being watched like he was a prize to be won. He did not get it often, especially not from people he found even the slightest attractive. It often came from Barb. It felt nicer coming from Owen. Different. <em> Electrifying</em>. </p><p>“I’m going to have to charge if you keep watching me like that.” </p><p>It was said to diffuse the thickness of the air around them both, and it was offered with a small laugh afterward, but Owen did not laugh. He instead straightened his jacket, set his jaw, and watched Curt until he passed by him and was on his way to the door. Curt felt his blood run cold and south. A small whisper of <em> fuck</em>, and he was racing out the door after him. </p><p>Thankfully, Owen had not left by the time he made it out of the restaurant. One hand was on top of his car, a nice baby blue model. His other was buried in his pocket for what Curt assumed were his keys. He jogged up to him and waited once more to be acknowledged. Owen waited until the door was opened to give him such an honor. </p><p>“Can I help you?”</p><p>“You never told me the address,” he replied. “The hotel. I-I don’t know the room.”</p><p>Owen gave a singular nod. “The Floramont, about three miles south. Room 205.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Curt said. All he received from Owen was one more stiff nod before all six-foot-three of him ducked into his car and started the engine. Within moments, he was zooming out of the parking lot. Curt’s skin bristled in the wake of his revving engine as it sped down the highway. </p><p><em> Show off</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Getting To Know You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As the two spies set out on their journey abroad, they find themselves in some sticky situations which reveal new sides of themselves to each other. Will they like what they learn? Read and see.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all SO MUCH for all of the positive feedback on chapter 1. I loved seeing your reactions and it really motivated me to keep going &amp; make this perfect for you guys. I cannot wait to see what you say after this one! Enjoy and, as always, let me know what you think :) Next update will be Friday!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The drive to the hotel was smooth. Traffic had ebbed for the time being, and the hotel itself was fairly easy to find. A large beige sign with bright maroon text and lining flashed ‘Floramount’ in capital letters just off the side of the pavement, right in Curt’s line of sight. He could not miss it if he tried, especially since the building was the same beige and a solid ten stories -- a nicer hotel than what he was used to from Cynthia. It made him excited, admittedly. He could use a nice, soft bed to decompress from the day in.</p><p>Once in the parking lot, Curt’s eyes hunted for Owen’s baby blue car. It took but a minute to find it thankfully, the blue sheen glistening in the quickly dimming light of night. At least Owen's taste made good for something. Popping his trunk, he made quick work of grabbing his belongings and hustling past families and businesspeople to his room. <em> Our room</em>, Curt’s evil brain reminded him. </p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>He needed to take a shower.</p><p>After a bit of hunting, he found his way over to it. Room 205. It was in the middle of a hallway, so they would definitely not have much in terms of privacy - not that they would need it of course. Not at all. But, the halls on route to it looked clean enough, the lights all were working, and there were complimentary items on every table he passed. It could have been a much worse setup to walk into, and he was grateful for it. He had experienced much worse. He could not imagine having to spend time in much worse with someone new, someone like Owen Carvour. Clearing his throat, Curt knocked on Room 205’s boring beige door and waited for his roommate, his <em> partner</em>, to open it and usher in the rest of the night. Thirty seconds of silence passed. Finally, after a small curse sounded on the other side, the knob turned and his partner revealed himself. </p><p>Of the many expectations that Curt had held for the sight he would see, the one he was granted was not even remotely one up for consideration. It was Owen. That much was not surprising. What was surprising, however, was the way he was dressed. Or, rather, the way he was not dressed. Only black pajama bottoms and a sleepy gaze adorned him. It was enough to make Curt just about stop breathing.</p><p>He was <em> hot. </em> </p><p>
  <em> Oh god, no. </em>
</p><p>“Glad to see you made it ol’ boy,” Owen declared, nonchalant and <em> very </em>unaware of the chaos going on inside Curt’s head. “Make yourself at home.”</p><p>As much as he wanted to, Curt knew he would not be able to do that. Not when the sight before him was what it was. Not when his mind was racing a dangerous race with his heart. Not when he noticed they would share a King bed and not<em> their own </em> beds. His poor brain was not equipped to settle under that much stimuli, that much <em> temptation. </em> His hands shook slightly as they dropped off his bags to the right of his side of the bed. Owen noticed this from his sideways gaze, but he kept quiet as always as he returned to the mattress. </p><p>“Sorry love, looks like MI6 couldn’t stretch budgets for more than one of these.” <em> Love? </em>Did he hear that correctly? Curt went pale. “Do not worry, though. I won’t snore.”</p><p>Because <em> that </em> was what he was worried about. </p><p>“I trust you.” Did he? Could he? Would he? “I’m, uh, going to shower.”</p><p>“Do as you must,” Owen called, crossing his legs at the ankle. Out of the drawer to his left, he pulled out his crossword from earlier and a pen. Curt would have been impressed that he had already unpacked if he were not so preoccupied with returning his breathing to normal. “Be warned, the water runs cold.”</p><p>“How do you know that? Did you really shower that fucking fast? I was only a few minutes behind you tops!”</p><p>Owen smiled down at his lap, arrogantly amused. “Easy, Mega. MI6 put me here on my last mission.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“No need to be embarrassed, love.” There it was again. <em> Love</em>. Owen tapped at his head, his smile transforming into a cocky smirk Curt had half a mind to slap off his face. “Always one step ahead, is all.”</p><p>Okay, now a full mind.</p><p>Bag in hand, Curt stomped off to the bathroom. </p><p>Unfortunately, Owen had not been bluffing about the state of the shower. The nice, relaxing, warm embrace of the water he expected was quickly replaced by the stinging, unforgiving cold of reality the moment he stepped in. Curt was surprised he did not squeal at its vicious touch. He was also surprised he managed to survive its torture for the ten minutes he needed to get fully clean. Maybe all those years of practicing desensitizing himself to become a better spy finally paid off. Stepping into the warmer air of the bathroom, Curt felt like he was stepping into heaven. It also made him feel content enough to forget for just a moment about the potential evil awaiting him in the next room: <em> Owen Carvour. </em></p><p>As he began rifling through his bag to pick out clothes for the night, Curt pondered what exactly he was going to do about Owen. The man very well could be his ruin. He was smart. He was charming. He was so unaware of what he was doing to Curt and yet highly aware at the same time, and it scared the shit out of Curt. A man like that was unpredictable. All it took was him figuring out why Curt was so uneasy around him for things to turn dangerous fast. For him to turn him into the A.S.S. a laughing stock and a disappointment of a spy. Curt did not want that, for the sake of his job and for his heart. He would not be able to take it. He had to use all of his talents and play it safe, for the greater good, no matter what his fluttering gut said.</p><p>The first major way he could do that was to try not to give Owen any reason to think there was a secret to be hidden. He had to convince Owen that Curt Mega was just an average agent, ready to get the job done and to tackle the bad guys. That was it! Plain and simple. If he could do that, Owen would be off his scent and they could become thick as thieves, saving the day without suspicion. Definitely. There would be no reason for feelings to come out and issues to arise based on any aspect of either of their personalities and beings. Of course. </p><p>Slipping on his own pair of navy sweatpants and a grey undershirt, Curt sat poised to strut out of the bathroom with a cool air of confidence about it all. A firmness. A strong sense of what he would and would not do for and around Owen Carvour.</p><p>And then, it all went out the window the second he stepped out and witnessed Owen gazing out the window in the moonlight. Still shirtless. Still handsome as ever.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck, why did he have to be hot? </em>
</p><p>Curt swallowed. </p><p>“You, uh, thinking about something?”</p><p>Owen was quick to turn, not realizing until then that Curt had entered. Curt watched him, scrutinized the way his eyes sat trained on him before skirting anywhere else and hiding behind a fixing of his hair. Knowing he was caught, Owen slinked back to the bed and cleared his throat. </p><p>“No. Needed some time away from the crossword, ‘s all.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“The shower alright for you?”</p><p>“Just as shitty as promised.”</p><p>A smile, a genuine one, graced Owen’s lips. It made Curt flush. <em> His smiles shine even brighter in the moonlight. I wonder if he knows? </em> “MI6 sure knows how to keep one’s expectations in check, do they not? You’ll no doubt get used to it.”</p><p>That he would. At the rate they were going, Curt felt the cold showers would become something he would come to greet like a welcomed friend in due time. Clearing his throat, he went over to the bed. He felt Owen’s eyes on him the entire time, watching and probably waiting for him to slip up and dare meet them, but he tried his best to push the thought away and slip beneath the covers without extraneous action. He did not need to acknowledge him. Not on night one. Not when he was an internal mess from just the sight of him. He needed to remain composed. Trained. Desensitized. Curt’s throat ran dry as his head settled against the pillow and Owen’s side of the bed dip in a too-tempting move. That, too, he briefly considered would become a welcomed occurrence. At least, he hoped so.</p><p>
  <em> Shut up, Mega. </em>
</p><p>“The alarm is set for 8,” Owen said over his shoulder, practically daring Curt's resolve to ebb with such a soft and doting voice as his. Curt wanted to curse. “I believe they serve breakfast until 11, so there is plenty of time to eat and prepare before our flight. You’ll want to take advantage.”</p><p>“Thanks, Owen.”</p><p>“Mhmm. Have a good night’s rest, love.”</p><p>The third slip was enough to stop Curt’s breathing completely. He did not dare shift in bed. He did not dare open his mouth for fear of what he might stumble out as a reply. He instead pretended to be asleep, because what else was he going to do? How else could he possibly reply to Owen in some way that did not scream the fact that, even though they had just met, he wanted to roll over, kiss him sweetly on those lips of his, and wish him just as pleasant of a night? It would only end in disaster. Silence was the only option. He <em>had</em> to remain strong. </p><p>Hopefully Owen would not care too much or think he gave him the cold shoulder. </p><p>
  <em> Please do not care. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Goodnight Owen. </em>
</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>When Curt woke, he could sense the bed was empty. </p><p>Besides the obvious dip Owen made in it last night being nonexistent, <em> he </em> was resting in its place. Sprawled out like a monster. Inhaling in the remainder of Owen’s scent like some fool. He jumped into the air in shock and realization as soon as he became aware, and when he noticed he was alone, a sigh of relief escaped him in one large gust. At least he was the only one to witness his embarrassment. At least Owen had not been there to see him react like a frightened teenager. <em> Idiot. </em></p><p>But that relief was short-lived, to his horror. While Owen not being there might have saved him face, it still meant he was somewhere else. Somewhere not safe in the room. Where was he? Was he okay? Why did he not wake him up when he left? Curt’s brain tried to tell him to relax, that he was off probably getting that breakfast he spoke about, but his heart still raced. His mind still wondered if something was wrong, if Cynthia had pulled the plug on the whole venture, if MI6 pulled their agent out before something dangerous happened. </p><p>If he had not waited for Owen to disappear before rolling into his space, scaring him off, revealing his secret.</p><p>T’was the life of a spy, to worry about these things.</p><p>The only hope Curt had in calming any of these fears was to canvas his surroundings and use his past knowledge to his advantage. First off, Owen’s belongings still were fairly neat as they were the night before. That comforted him. At least it did not look like they were robbed and he was taken as ransom. Those missions always were messy. Too many dead bodies to account for. Too much paperwork. Second, there were no signs of any injuries. Owen’s bedside still shone just as brilliantly white as it had before. The shower was untouched. The bathroom had some evidence of toothpaste, but nothing more. </p><p>Third on Curt’s mental checklist was weaponry. If Owen knew he was doing this, he would be killed in an instant. A spy’s weapons were like their children. Their treasure. But, Curt reasoned, he should not have expected him <em> not </em> to explore his weapons if he evacuated the room without so much as a note. He deserved this. Curt dove into his bags and checked under furniture. Every nook and cranny went searched, nothing lost, nothing overlooked. To his relief, besides the obvious personal handgun any good spy had at their side, all of his other weapons seemed intact. He hurried to make quick work of packing everything exactly as he found it before moving on to the last idea on his checklist: possible locations.</p><p>Owen had made it clear they were flying out at noon. Given the time on the clock, 10 a.m., and his belongings still remaining, he was not already en route. That eliminated the airport. His wallet remaining tucked away safe in his suitcase also eliminated any place outside of the hotel. Owen would need money and identification for that. That left him with one last piece of information as a guide. <em> Breakfast</em>. </p><p>Of course his partner, with all his talk about communication being key, would ditch him without a word to go eat. It was fitting. Par for the course with Curt’s luck. Tossing on his tight blue shirt and casual black slacks, gun tucked in his waistband, he made his way out of the room and downstairs to test his hypothesis and scold his new friend. </p><p>Sure enough, his hunch was right on point. When he made his way down to the dining area, he was met with two things: the smell of fresh pancakes coated in warm maple syrup, and one Owen Carvour. It was both comforting and sickening at the same time to see him. Curt wanted to berate him for causing such needless panic within him from the start. He wanted to toss the remainder of what looked to be Belgian waffles on his plate off the table and yell, because <em> oh </em> did he deserve it. No one laid out tons of rules on Curt Mega without also following them themselves. This was a partnership, and if he was going to be forced to work with someone else, that partnership had to be equal. No slip ups. No bullshit excuses, not even for someone seemingly suave and perfect like him.</p><p>But then, he <em> noticed </em> Owen.</p><p>The man hardly looked like he slept. At <em> all </em> . His eyes were sunken in and highlighted by dark circles that accentuated his brooding glance in the eating area's dim light. His hair was slightly mussed, falling freely into his face. That face which looked as if it had never had to think about a decision once in its lifetime was scrunched in heavy contemplation of another crossword. To further the disheveled look, his clothes were <em> casual</em>. A navy button-up, unbuttoned for the first three buttons, and plain grey slacks. For Curt, it would not be shocking. For Owen “<em>Britain’s best” </em> Carvour, however, such a look was. He scrutinized it more as he approached the table.</p><p>“Owen?”</p><p>Curt might as well have spooked a rabbit. Owen immediately jumped, eyes widening and arm almost hitting his tea for what would have caused a most unfortunate accident. Frankly, it was a kind of adorable sight to behold. It almost made Curt feel bad for being so startling. However, shoving such a swarm of emotion down was easier to do when one was still mad at the guilt’s source, though. Putting up his best ‘disappointed’ look, he folded his arms and cocked his hip to the side. </p><p>“Morning.”</p><p>“Morning." There was caution in Owen's eyes as Curt moved to sit across from him. “Did you sleep well?”</p><p>“Yeah, I slept very peacefully. It’s a shame I spent my first few moments awake panicking and wondering if someone has already managed to kidnap my partner, though.”</p><p>“I apologize.”</p><p>“A bit shabby on those communication skills, are we ol’ pal?” </p><p>He had no clue where this sudden confidence was coming from, poking the sleeping bear that was his partner, but he was grateful for it. Owen deserved a talking to. He <em> had </em> been scared. He deserved to taste his own medicine.</p><p>“I had a bout of insomnia and forgot to write. It will not happen again.”</p><p>Huh. So Owen might also be an insomniac. That was good to know. Curt raised a brow. </p><p>“Does that happen often?”</p><p>Owen looked up from his crossword. “Hmm? Oh, the insomnia. No, not often.”</p><p>“Is it because of the mission?”</p><p>“Could be.”</p><p>“I sometimes get antsy before. B-Before missions, I mean.” Why was Curt telling him this? Was he not supposed to be scolding him? “Barb hates when I’m like that because she always has to repeat herself. Says I’m scatterbrained.”</p><p>“Barb?”</p><p>Another pang of guilt hit Curt. He really had forgotten to mention the one person who actually cared about him besides his mother, hadn’t he? She would have been so keen to tell Owen all about him if the roles were reversed. He really needed to work on that -- after he figured out Owen, of course. “She’s basically my government-assigned technical assistant slash friend. You’ll probably hear her calling soon. She likes to keep tabs on me.” </p><p>Owen nodded. He then gestured over to the large buffet Curt had seen when walking in, reminding Curt of the empty ache in his stomach. Damn his primal instincts and their love for maple syrup, it looked good. “You can tell me more about her after you take advantage of the buffet, hmm? Once we fly to Monaco, it may be a while before our next meal.”</p><p>That was surely enough to motivate Curt. He hated when missions kept him from meals. His mother had trained him to expect a nice three square meal ratio for the day, and even though he had lived on his own for quite some time as a spy, he liked to keep the expectation alive. It was a routine comfort for him. Missions had no care for comforts. He was just happy to not miss out this time.</p><p>The first item on Curt's plate was a stack of fluffy pancakes, piled three tiers high and drenched in fluffy butter and the warmest of maple syrups -- just what the doctor ordered. Strawberries quickly were added on top, adding a sweet pop of color and tang to the treat. Against his better judgement, a few strips of bacon also joined at their side. When he returned to the table, he was pretty sure he detected some judgement from the spy across from him for the masterpiece. He did not care, though. He was ready to make the most of his last meal for a while.</p><p>Owen poked at his waffle for a few minutes, watching with amusement as Curt dove into his pile. The two sat in relative silence until, as his waffle neared its end, Owen decided to speak up and break it by gently calling Curt's name. Curt's eyes looked up at the sweet-sounding call, pausing his devouring to listen like a puppy midway through a stake. Had he not looked so ravenous, it might have been enough to make Owen smile. Instead, he kept a cool face and inched his plate to the side.</p><p>“I see you like pancakes.”</p><p>“What can I say,” Curt said, toying with a larger piece on his fork with a cocky smile and pep in his seat, “I had them all the time as a kid. They’re my comfort food. It's been ages since I've had ones as good as these.”</p><p>“So, I'm guessing that is why you've moaned with each bite so far?”</p><p>Curt froze. </p><p>Had he really been doing that? Oh god, <em> had he really been doing that? </em> In front of <em> Owen? </em> He had not even realized. Well, that was it. It was a good run. Barely made it through one day, and he was dead. Goodbye Owen! Goodbye embarrassment! Goodbye awkward as hell life!</p><p>Curt slowly put his fork down and buried himself in his glass of milk as a distraction. It did not distract from everything, though. This time, he did not miss Owen throwing him an odd look. If he did not know any better, he would think he saw some fondness in those deep eyes of his. Could it even be so? Or was that wishful thinking on Curt’s muddled brain’s part? Mercifully, his gaze shifted back to the crossword booklet before Curt could decide either way, finding an out.</p><p>“I-I see you like crossword puzzles.”</p><p>Owen paused, almost considering Curt’s words as if they were crucial and not some cheap get-out-of-jail card, and nodded. “They keep my mind sharp. I’m sure you are aware that that’s something important in this business.”</p><p>Nodding his reply, Curt cautiously picked up a strawberry and took a bite. “My mother used to do them all the time. She actually had a whole stack of newspapers saved up on our kitchen counter in case she got bored and wanted to do one, if you can believe it. Said it helped her clear her brain. I really think she just wanted a chance to distract her from me being an absolute hellion. Did you know I used to try and create obstacle courses in our living room? One time, I stepped on this pillow she made with my boots and just about faced the wrath of God from her. She was so mad!”</p><p>“Why are you telling me this, Curt?”</p><p>Curt had never heard Owen say his name before, and if he was being honest, he kind of liked it. Not as much as he liked his other name for him, love, but still. It was nice. It would be nicer if said in tandem with something not so cryptic or harsh in tone, though. He frowned. </p><p>“What do you mean? I’m just talking about my mom, it’s not like it’s super embarrassing or anything.”</p><p>No, Curt knew embarrassing well. Every single movement and saying he had made since the moment his eyes opened that morning had been embarrassing. <em> This </em> was a genuine attempt at conversation. At <em>connecting.</em> And Owen seemed destined to squash it for some reason. Curt could feel frustration and a hint of disappointment growing inside him as the other man took a long sip of his drink.</p><p>“It’s sensitive information.”</p><p>“It’s a story about my mom doing a crossword and me building forts, Owen. That’s not sensitive.”</p><p>“It’s personal.” Owen ran a hand through his hair, and Curt felt a strong urge to mess it up just to spite him, <em> the conversation squasher</em>. “It reveals you have collateral. Family ties. It’s the same story with Barb. In the wrong hands, that can hurt you. Or them. It's best you say nothing.”</p><p>“I’m not talking to the wrong hands, though. I’m talking to my partner,” Curt huffed, putting down his knife and fork in favor of crossing his arms. “I would like to think I can speak to my partner about my family without it becoming a liability. I know you could say things like that to me."</p><p>Owen remained quiet across the table. Curt sighed.</p><p>"Besides Owen, I don’t need you to baby me. If you really read my info like you claimed, you’d know I’m regarded as one of the best. I know what I'm doing. I know how to not get myself and others killed.”</p><p>“And yet your boss requested I join you for protection.”</p><p>“That was out of precaution, not necessity.”</p><p>“Is that what they told you?”</p><p>Curt pouted again. Owen brought his cup up to his lips and took another agonizing long sip, challenging him.  </p><p>“You’re too quick to trust, Mega.”</p><p>“And you’re too cynical, Carvour.”</p><p>“Someone has to be.”</p><p>Picking up the cloth from his lap and dropping it on top of his plate, Owen stood. He stared Curt down for a brief moment as he had at the restaurant, eyes boring into his with something wicked and intimidating, before turning on his heels and leaving. Curt watched him in silence as he headed in the direction of their room, not a glance thrown back to his partner and their abandoned table. For some reason, he felt hurt. Not angry, not upset by Cynthia's possible referral to him as a liability, but hurt. Hurt that Owen felt like he was a flight risk. Hurt that he was so concerned he would be the end of him. Hurt that, while he placed full trust in Owen to protect him, Owen dared not to do the same. Maybe it was his emotions talking, but that hurt most of all to Curt. <em>That</em> made him feel like utter shit, unable to finish his pancakes. If Owen could never trust him, they would never work as partners. They would never work as friends. Despite Owen's behavior, Curt wanted them to at least be friends. If only they could be friends. </p><p>Standing up from the table, Curt let out a long sigh and turned on his heels to join him in their room.</p><p>He was in for a long flight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Not Worth Fighting For</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Barb calls, and Curt and Owen decide there are a few things they might want to settle before they land in Monaco.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello!! Here's chapter three!! Thank you all again for so many kind comments &amp; kudos, it does absolute wonders for keeping me going. I'm going to do my best to keep delivering &amp; showing you these two's journey! This chapter is on the shorter side, but hopefully its content makes up for that. Think of it as a little treat before we dive into the real meat of the story next time! As always, tell me what you think, and enjoy! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Curt? Is that you? I’ve- <em> we’ve </em> been waiting for you for hours! What the heck have you been up to?”</p><p>Curt sighed into the receiver. </p><p>Moments before, he had been sitting beside Owen -- who still was quite deliberately not speaking to him -- in silence and relative calm. Sure, it had been driving him mad to see Owen so quiet and to not understand fully its exact cause, but at least it had been quiet. Quiet was good. Quiet was stagnant. Nothing could be ruined in quiet. Unfortunately, quiet was also a fragile concept. His watch broke it loudly, piercing the quiet in a harsh cacophony of beeps, and Curt found himself face-to-face with bigger demons than Owen’s brooding silence. </p><p>The A.S.S. </p><p>The group he had been scheduled to call the day prior after his initial meeting with Owen.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>Curt would take silence over its wrath any day.</p><p>Thankfully, it was not Cynthia Houston who picked up when he answered the call. If she had been the angry voice on the other line, Curt might have died. He did not get to be late with her. Lateness with Cynthia meant a bullet in the chest if you forgot your vest, or poisoned lunch if you were lucky. Over the phone, it meant enough negative fodder to make a guy choose to take the poison themselves willingly. He could be late with Barb, though. Barb was a softer alternative. Still firm when necessary, but too lovestruck to ever cause him actual harm. He was relieved to see it was she who answered -- though, he could do without the yelling. Her voice really knew how to pierce a receiver...</p><p>“Are you even there, Curt?”</p><p>“Yeah I am,” he groaned, slicking back his hair as the airport came up into the view in the distance. Just a few more minutes. He just had to make it through a few more minutes of Barb’s displeasure and Owen’s awkward silence before he was free to nap or drink or do whatever one could on a private jet.  “And you can calm down, Barb. I’m fine.”</p><p>“Well, we didn’t know that, sillypants! Everyone has been worried sick!”</p><p>Curt knew that was a lie. Cynthia had not worried about him once in her life. And, if she ever were to in the future, Curt would take it as a sign to play the lottery. It would be that out of the blue. No, her exclamation of worry was a signature Barb emotion rising to the surface. A mark of her long-standing crush on him coming to light. He sighed once more, heavier, as the full weight of just how messed up the situation was reared its ugly head again and the familiar guilt of leading the poor girl on seeped into his veins.</p><p>“<em> Well</em>, they can stop now. I’m alive. Agent Carvour didn’t kill me or anything.” The first sign of life left Owen’s lips at that, manifesting in the form of an indigent ‘hmph.’  Curt rolled his eyes at it. <em> Let him suffer a bit. They say it’s good for the ego. </em> “Anything I need to know before we take flight, Barb?”</p><p>“It looks like we don’t know too much right now,” she replied, the sound of papers rustling cluttering her feed. “I’ll be able to purge the good data books for the more juicy information once you land and meet your contact. Oh! Speaking of, you’ll be attending a ball sometime soon with them! Isn’t that exciting?” </p><p>Curt could think of at least a dozen things more exciting than a ball. However, a ball did provide him a chance to get drunk and ignore his Owen problem once the night’s mission was completed. He could stand a few snobby patrons if that sat at the other side of the rainbow. The thought was almost enough to bring a smile to his face. </p><p>Almost. </p><p>The thought of possibly having to discuss boring subjects he hardly cared for or romancing another poor girl he had zero intention of caring for discarded all of that. Curt leaned back until his head hit his seat.</p><p>“Lovely.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t sound so pessimistic, Curtis! It’s better than sitting cooped up in the random building I’ll be at. The last one didn’t even have working air conditioning!” Curt scrunched up his nose. <em> Yikes. </em> “What I wouldn’t give to be there with you, dancing the night away...”</p><p>“Uhhh, <em> nooo</em>, you’d be <em> sooo </em> bored,” he drew out, earning another funny look from Owen. “It’s just a bunch of schmoozing uppity people and conning the few important ones until you get what you need from them. It’s lame stuff, really.”</p><p>“W-Well maybe, but with you-”</p><p>“Look, I’ll talk to you later, Barb. Tell Cynthia hi for me and don’t try and blow up anything while I’m gone. Oh, and update me on that new explosive pocket watch gadget. I’ve been really curious about that one. Thanks, gotta go!” </p><p>Without another word from the girl, Curt ended the call. Who would have known such a small conversation would leave him so exhausted? He certainly had not. After training his eyes to the roof of the car to thank God for ending such a call, he turned to Owen. He expected to find a similar look of exhaustion or his former stoic look on his face because, well, Owen championed that and Barb had to be exhausting for others to listen to, right? Instead, he was met with a deliberate side-eye, one that held way too much sass for Curt’s liking. It made him scoff. What on Earth had made Owen so moody?</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You have quite the relationship with your ‘government-assigned technical assistant.’”</p><p>“First off, there’s no relationship,” Curt clarified, holding up a finger for emphasis. “She’s had a crush on me for years, but we’re just coworkers, and it’s going to stay that way. Second, what do you even mean by all that?”</p><p>At the wheel, Owen shrugged. “You spoke of her rather respectfully earlier at breakfast, and yet you hardly let the poor thing speak just then. I would’ve thought you would pay more mind to the government workers at your disposal considering they’re in charge of saving your life and being your friend.”</p><p>“What? I didn’t do that! I listened to Barb perfectly fine!”</p><p>“Curt, you cut off her last sentence. <em> Blatantly</em>.”</p><p>Curt frowned. Damn Owen and his keen sense of awareness. </p><p>“Don’t...don’t you have an airport you need to be getting us to?”</p><p>Owen sighed, readjusting his grip on the wheel. “Forget it then, Curt. Do what you want with your coworkers. I do not wish to waste energy inquiring about them if it is going to lead to another insufferable fight with you.”</p><p>“<em>Fine. </em>”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>The silence that filled the car in the minutes proceeding was maddening. Neither man willed themselves to acknowledge the other, even when they pulled up to the airport and had to grab their bags. Each took their items out individually, stepping aside or busying themselves with something else -- what, Curt <em> really </em> needed to fix his collar! -- while the other worked. Before long, they were sharing the uncomfortable silence aboard a private jet in relative luxury. Curt almost preferred the car more.</p><p>With the car, he at least did not have much of a reason to start up a conversation. On the jet, however, there were plenty of things to discuss. For one, there were more choices of alcohol on the jet’s minibar than Curt had seen at actual fully stocked bars. There also were plush beds provided. Curt wanted nothing more than to joke about how they were nicer than his at home, which could be equated to a brick. He wanted to joke with Owen that MI6 really was slacking at keeping them humble and see that brilliant smile of his shine against the backdrop of the sun. </p><p>The issue was, Owen did not have such wishes. If he did, he certainly hid them well. Curt barely noticed him pay him even the slightest bit of attention. It was as if he knew the exact way he had to move around the cabin so as to not disturb or provoke any words from Curt. The closest he got to doing so was placing his belongings on the bottom bunk. Curt wanted to call fowl and complain that Owen had a much better claim to the top one given his height, but the glare he received when he opened his mouth to do so tucked that thought right away. </p><p>He had never heard a silence quite this loud. </p><p>By hour two of the flight, the two men had settled into their own relative places. Curt was nestled into a plush white seat, sipping whiskey as he scrolled through that day’s newspaper he had smuggled onboard. Owen on the other hand rested reclined on his bed, that damned crossword still in hand. Curt was not sure his eyes ever left it once it opened. He wondered just what it would take to get it away from him and if doing so might cause the plane to crash. If it ended the horrible silence, maybe a little bit of turbulence would not hurt...</p><p>“If you’re going to stare, at least make it less obvious, Curt.”</p><p>Curt immediately shifted his eyes down to his drink, blushing harder than a schoolgirl. When had Owen noticed him? What tipped him off? How had Curt missed it? Well, if he wanted him to stop, he certainly would get his wish. Curt was not sure he would be able to so much as glance in his direction after that callout. He heard the mattress dip and a pair of shoes click across the floor. </p><p>When he looked up, Owen stood before him, arms crossed. Curt felt his throat go dry.</p><p>“Something else I’m bothering you with?”</p><p>“As much as I find our recent words frustrating, I shouldn’t have to explain to you how bad retaining unresolved issues are upon beginning a new mission,” he said, diplomatic as ever. “We need to talk.”</p><p>“Can I top off my drink first?”</p><p>Owen’s eye roll was answer enough.</p><p>“Okay, okay. What are we talking about first?”</p><p>“I’ve been too short with you.”</p><p>Curt blinked. He agreed with such a statement, but he did not expect that Owen would as well. He expected Owen admitting to it even less. His eyes followed him as he took a seat across the cabin.</p><p>“It is an adjustment, working with someone else. I think, in all my preparations, I’ve forgotten how big of an adjustment it really is,” he mused. Curt carefully took another sip of his drink. “I’ve also forgotten that a little humanity is to be expected. So, I apologize for shutting your attempts at connecting down so quickly. I will try better to listen before I correct.”</p><p>Curt gave a slight nod. He was not sure how else one was supposed to react to such an apology. He honestly was too shocked it was happening to come up with something better. At least, from Owen’s lack of a reaction either way, he was not making things worse. </p><p> “I will also try to trust you more. With Barb, with the mission, with everything.”</p><p>“Owen-”</p><p>“No,” Owen said, hand raised to silence Curt, “No, I’m serious. I’ve not trusted a single judgement of yours in the past twenty four hours, yet I’ve read your file and seen your track record and know you are a smart and capable agent worthy of my trust. I should trust you. I should treat you more as a partner and less like an adversary. As such, I’m going to trust that what you tell me is worthy of me knowing and give you more reasons to trust me in return. Make this more of an equal partnership, so to speak. Within reason, of course, but still.”</p><p>“T-Thank you,” Curt blurted out. A similar nod to the one he gave before met him across the cabin. </p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>“I’ll try to give you less reasons to stay up at night worrying, too.”</p><p>“Ease your burden, Mega. You did not cause that.”</p><p>Setting his drink down beside him and leaning forward in his seat, Curt wondered what, if not him, could have done such a thing then. Perhaps it really was just nerves about getting the job done right. Or, perhaps one of Owen’s secrets was getting to him. Curt could understand that, if that were the case. He had spent more than a few sleepless nights surrounding his. Lord knew a good secret could eat one up alive inside. </p><p>“I doubt I helped it, though. I can be...<em>overly confident </em> at times, if you hadn’t noticed.”</p><p>“I have.”</p><p>Curt chewed at his lip. “I know I could do better at listening to your advice when you give it, Owen. You know, without raising your blood pressure in the process. I know it’s not said without reason.”</p><p>“I’ve experienced worse. But,” Owen grinned, “thank you. It means a lot.” </p><p>Curt grinned back, and wow, was it a relief to see Owen smile. It was like a breath of fresh air. A sun beam on a cloudy day. It made the stress of their previous conversations melt away, and it gave Curt an idea.</p><p>Standing up, he went over to the minibar and snagged a glass, filling it with ice. It was done with more skill than he’d hoped Owen to pick up on, he realized as soon as he finished. The last thing he needed to do in the middle of this amicable discussion was bring up his somewhat shady relationship with alcohol. That was a debate for another day. But, he pushed forward anyway, leaning against the bar with the nonchalance he prided himself on.</p><p>“I think we should end this with a toast, don’t you think? You know, to starting anew and all that. What would you like, partner?”</p><p>“You’re going to be the death of me, Mega,” he replied, the grin never leaving his face. That was an image Curt never would forget. “Gin and tonic.”</p><p>“What,” Curt said as he poured, “is Cabernet too fancy for our new plans? They’ve got it here. They’ve got everything, really. You can have your pick.”</p><p>The faintest of smirks stared Curt in the face as he handed over the drink, completed with a garnish and everything. It sent his pulse racing, despite himself. “I tend to reserve hard liquor for business transactions and wine for more pleasurable ones, personally. And it was Merlot, love, not Cabernet.”</p><p>Well damn, if he hadn’t been having heart palpitations before. Did that mean Owen had treated, or at least had wished to treat, their first meeting as something...pleasing? Enjoyable? Did he still regard it as so in his memories? Was hanging around Curt something he liked, or was it strictly business? Could it ever be more than business again? Was his use of ‘love’ again any indication either way? Curt felt his stomach tie in knots. </p><p>He really hoped Owen didn’t catch him blushing in such close proximity.</p><p>
  <em> Do you even know how to be professional, Mega? This is business! Think of the alcohol! Act accordingly! </em>
</p><p>Leaning precariously over, Curt snatched his drink from the table. Once procured, he held it up for Owen to see and gave him his best winning smile, hoping to whatever deity existed that it would distract him from the cluster of emotions his body had betrayed him with. “To a fresh restart. <em> Annnd </em> maybe not bugging the shit out of each other as much.”</p><p>A twinkle in his eye, Owen dared to toss Curt a wink. “To the best of our ability.”</p><p>Curt downed the remainder of his whiskey whole. </p><p>
  <em> To the best of our ability. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Faith, Trust, and a Possible Nuclear War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After their amicable exchange on the plane, Curt and Owen finally meet their clients. Discussions lead to a declaration of trust, among other things.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First off, as always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful comments. I seriously don't know what I've done to deserve such kind words, but I am so grateful! Second, sorry for being late updating! I was busy all this week, so I fell off my usual writing routine. I'll try to get back to Friday this next time around. Third, a LOT is introduced in this chapter. I think I might have rewritten this chapter about four times as a result lol, so I hope it all flows well (especially the end, that part was stubborn)!! Drop a comment and/or kudos if you like it, and enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“My my, if it isn’t the greatest pleasure to meet you two!”</p><p>Curt’s day was a roller coaster of emotions the second he and Owen landed in Monaco. Besides the fact he was still reeling from speaking with Owen and downing more alcohol than he had anticipated on the plane, he immediately had to face the prospect of being driven to their contact in none other than a massive limo. It was nowhere near the type of thing for Cynthia to do, and the wide-eyed look on Owen’s face as it rolled up told him it was also rather far-fetched for the team at MI6 as well. Too conspicuous. Too gaudy. They traveled in it in style across the foreign country, and when their joyride finally came to a stop, they found themselves before a mansion. This mansion, Curt noted, was the gaudiest thing of them all. It might as well have been a royal palace. Big, white columns, a six-car garage, a lavish pool at its left with surrounding water features -- it could not have been less than forty million American dollars. He felt unworthy of standing in its presence. Owen’s awe at the scene told him he felt the same.</p><p>The emotional and sensory overload did not end there. The mansion’s owner, Jules Hawire, was about as much of a character as either spy had ever met. He greeted them in a fancy, head-to-toe beige suit, a cane in one hand and a cigar in the other. His hair, jet black, was slicked back and shiny in the sunlight. His warm welcome to them was loud and deep enough for the entirety of France to have heard it across the border. He was far from the typical client they worked for, to say the least. </p><p>His wife was similar. Reminiscent of 1920s glamour, she donned a flowing maroon dress when the three approached. It cascaded to the floor, much like her raven hair, and made her look far more important than Curt could ever imagine a person being. She raised her hand for both spies to kiss as if she were a queen and then happily returned to her life of comfort on the Hawire’s large white couch as if nothing had happened. Curt could grow jealous of that. His eyes did not leave her for a bit.</p><p>The last of the Hawire family, a spunky girl by the name of Veronica, might as well have been a perfect combination of the two. While the nineteen-year-old had her mother’s looks, her father’s boisterousness radiated in everything else about her. She wore a fluffy pink hoop skirt like the ones Curt remembered seeing back at home in schools, and she matched it to pastel green accessories and a white shirt unapologetically. Her smile was everlasting. Her giggles echoed in the mansion. Shaking her hand and greeting her was like an instant sugar rush. Curt felt a bit overwhelmed by it all. Owen remained stoic, but his breath of relief when she stepped aside did not go unnoticed. </p><p>
  <em> Me too, pal. </em>
</p><p>Only bubbly Veronica joined the gathering of men as they entered the mansion’s business room. It was a smaller room with a round table and no windows -- the type of room that would make any man anxious and any good spy reach to ensure their gun was still on them. Jules Hawire seemed like a jolly man, sure, but if anyone was ever going to get killed...well, this secluded place would be the perfect stage. Curt’s hand remained near his thigh as the group took their seats. </p><p>“Well, now that we’re all here and happy,” Jules boomed and clapped his hands together, his cigar resting on a nearby tray, “how about we get down to business, huh? I’ve got loads to tell you two. This one’s going to be a real doozy. Basically-”</p><p>“Not to be a burden,” Owen said -- the first thing he had uttered since they arrived. It felt nice to hear his voice again. It cut through the tension in Curt’s mind and was quite the blessed distraction, not even just because Curt liked hearing it. He adored its ability to soothe the anxiety pooling into him courtesy of whatever Jules had been about to say. It was like a drug to him. “But, the information we have arrived to discuss with you today, sir, is of a matter most classified. Exposing your daughter to these topics may put her at a grave risk, let alone jeopardize the mission.”</p><p>“Oh, I won’t tell!” It was said gleefully, in the way any young child would promise a secret. She even topped it by crossing her heart for emphasis -- a tell-tale sign the promise was assured. Somehow, it did not convince anyone on the other side of the table. In fact, it made Owen’s eyes grow more narrow. Scrutinizing. Judgmental that the father was sitting at her side was not giving so much as a warning to his wide-eyed girl to cut her losses and leave. For once, Curt was pleased to see the resulting glare twist his features. Jules and Veronica deserved it. “I’m a great secret keeper!”</p><p>“I do not doubt that, love.” Oh, so Owen used the L-word on others? That was...interesting. Curt would have a long and hard thought on that later, when he was not concerned their clients would kill them with stupidity. “However, this is not a secret you would harbor between friends. This is a matter of world security, and you could sincerely be harmed if it slips, as could we. You do not want that, do you?”</p><p>“My daughter will want what she wants, Mr. Carvour.” Curt had half a mind to reach over and snuff out Jules’ cigar for that one. He figured his neck would be a fun spot. He wouldn’t try speaking to Owen that same way if he chose there. Lots of pain sensitivity. Lots of visibility. </p><p>
  <em> Pull yourself together, Mega. Now’s not the time to get territorial. </em>
</p><p>Owen sighed. “I just want to ensure you are both aware of the risks. If you are willing to take them, then we may move forward.”</p><p>Jules did not need a second more to deliberate. The decision and the risk had already been taken in his mind. Veronica would stay at his side. She was now a part of this. Sealing the deal, it was her hand that slid the folder containing their mission information across the table to Curt and Owen. Curt let Owen explore it first, knowing his mind was sharper at the moment. To his displeasure, such an action meant enduring a painful attempt at a wink by Veronica. He could gag.</p><p>“My beautiful family and I facilitate a large exportation of textiles and perfumes,” Jules began, straightening out his lapel with a nod his daughter’s way. “For the past twenty years since my move from America, we have run a multi-million franc industry that is respected and cherished by our people. However, something fishy has been going on lately. We believe our exports are being tampered with by foreign influences.”</p><p>Okay, Curt had heard that one before at least. When did countries <em> not </em> try and tamper with each other’s financial gains? It was as common as a hello. A handshake. They could handle a case like that. It would take some care and planning, but they could do it.</p><p>“The issue is, they aren’t just messing with my sales. These bastards are trying to mess with my family <em> and </em> the countries we primarily export to.”</p><p>“America and Britain,” Curt stated. Jules nodded.</p><p>“Bingo. Besides countless death threats to my beautiful wife and lovely daughter, we’ve received some messages about plans to hurt our principality’s  foreign allies. Troubling ones. Ones that told me this is no mere battle I can handle myself.”</p><p>Owen gazed up from the file. “Nuclear war?”</p><p>“Everyone’s so bomb-happy these days,” Jules pondered to himself in annoyance, picking his cigar back up to take a long puff from it. The action nearly made Curt sputter out a few coughs. “They’re willing to start another war just because they hate our hold on the textile industry. Hilarious, isn’t it?”</p><p>“As hilarious as a possible nuclear holocaust is,” Curt murmured. So, that explained why Cynthia had set Owen along with him on this mission. It was not just his skin on the line this time. One wrong move and the entire planet could get decimated. <em> Comforting</em>. “Do you know who might want to disrupt your industry, Mr. Hawire?”</p><p>“Your guess is as good as mine. Though, we have had some testy relations with a few of our Russian friends in the past.” Of course, this had to do with them. What didn’t in those days? Curt had to fight back the urge to say the thought bored him. Thinking about the possible fallout of it all did well to help. “It is a, how you say, Cold War currently for you all, is it not? I have my suspicions my textiles might make a great disguise for a bomb.”</p><p>Owen slid the files over to Curt, who quickly dove into them himself. “Your information lists a gentleman by the name of Maxim Lebedev as your top suspect. What is your relationship to him?”</p><p>“We had quite a bad deal five months ago,” Jules said. He sighed and set his cigar down, choosing to instead finally pay attention to a scotch waiting nearby. “We agreed on a trade to his fashion warehouse not far outside Moscow and, not even an hour before it was to occur, he backed out. I would have only been bummed out by the lost deal if it had not been for a coincidental disappearance of that very shipment.”</p><p>“So you think this guy stole them?” Curt asked.</p><p>“Precisely. There have been rumors of our good name appearing on boxes across the Atlantic and European continent. Given the times, I wouldn’t be shocked if some shady business is going on to cause such a besmirching. Wouldn’t you agree?”</p><p>Owen and Curt exchanged a glance.</p><p>“We have been informed of a ball taking place soon,” the former said, dodging the scowl of <em> ‘That was MY information only, Carvour!’ </em> sent his way at his side. <em> Jerk. </em> “Do you happen to know if Mr. Lebedev will be in attendance, or anyone else for that matter that we might speak to?”</p><p>Jules shook his head. “Unfortunately, he’s laid low these past weeks. He probably believes I’m on his case. He is far from dumb, my friends. But, I do believe some of his acquaintances might attend. Perhaps even one of his family members, if he’s daring. The bastard.”</p><p>A cheerful giggle bubbled up at his side. “And so will you, Daddy!”</p><p>“Yes dear,” he chuckled, patting Veronica’s back. “I also will be! And so will my beautiful daughter, if the two of you would wish to keep her company next week. I know she would be honored to attend with a handsome gentleman at her side, right sweetheart?”</p><p>One look at the sheer giddiness in Veronica made Curt’s stomach loathe the very thought. Owen, he could handle. An out-of-her-league, easily excitable, barely-adult girl who had made herself a target on a global scale willingly, he was not so sure. Owen did not look too enthused either. In fact, if Curt was not reading it wrong, he looked almost sickly. Then again, when would that thought bring comfort to a spy?</p><p>“We would be happy to attend with you both,” he replied, smiling despite gritting his teeth. The pair did not seem to notice. “Provided we may conduct our business in private, of course.”</p><p>“For sure, my boy! We’re eternally grateful for your help. Hey,” he joked, raising his glass, “maybe if all goes well, we can get you two some nice outfits as compensation, eh?” </p><p>“Oh, that’s such a splendid idea, daddy!”</p><p>Owen stared back without an ounce of amusement. Curt laughed, awkwardly adjusting his shirt.</p><p>Within a few minutes more of uncomfortable pleasantries and unreciprocated flirting courtesy of way-too-eager Victoria, the two were back in their limo and off to their safe house. The ride, to no one’s surprise, stayed silent. Neither spy wished to discuss what happened. Why would they? Not only did they find out they were dealing with what possibly could be the end of the world, <em> but </em> they also found out they would be babysitting! Wonderful. It was enough to make anyone feel too ill to speak. Curt sympathized with it causing Owen to barge inside the safe house without grabbing anything, even if it made him have to carry his bags for him.</p><p>That was a discussion they could have another time.</p><p>The interior of the safe house was, admittedly, nice. Curt had experienced worse in his past, such as a limited floor plan and unworking appliances. He even once found himself in a home infested with roaches. This one at least gave off the impression of comfort and cleanliness. It rested in an open-concept design, with soft creme furniture and pink wallpaper just gaudy enough to remind Curt of his mother’s home. The kitchen was blocked by a few cabinets, but he could see the distinct coloring of yellow wallpaper and white tile well enough to know it was typical of the times. Between a brooding Owen and his mind racing, there was little time leftover upon entry to check the bedroom situation, but he figured they would be decorated rather similarly. He would have more time to assess if that was true later, when his partner was not lying with his hands covering his face and groaning like a dying animal on the couch. Cautious, Curt dropped their bags and shuffled over to him.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“That bloody girl is going to get us killed,” he spat, fingers almost tearing out hairs in the process. “Are they actually serious, letting her sit in on that information? A teenager? Might as well shoot us in the head and save us the suffering.”</p><p>Okay, so he was not okay. </p><p>Curt took a seat on the adjoining single seat, folding his hands together. “Yeah, I was not a fan of that either. But, uh, hey! Maybe we won’t have to worry about her! She seems silly enough. Maybe if we find her something distracting-”</p><p>“That ‘something distracting’ will find out and get us killed instead,” Owen finished. Curt rolled his eyes, happy Owen missed the gesture in his sour fit. The last thing he needed was a lecture. </p><p>“Alright, well, let’s not dwell on that right now.” </p><p>“Curt, we have to. Our lives are at stake.”</p><p>“We’ll drive ourselves mad if we do,” Curt replied. “We have an entire week to pass, you know. Do you really want to spend it agonizing over the possibility of some teen girl getting us killed, or would you rather spend it preparing to prevent that? Planning, strategizing, the whole shebang? Isn’t that more befitting of a spy?”</p><p>“Curt-”</p><p>“You said you’d try to listen to me more, right? Well then,” he cocked his hip to the side, placing a hand on it, “listen. You know I’m right.”</p><p>Owen did not say another word. Curt took it as a win.</p><p>A minute later, he decided to break the silence.</p><p>“The ball. It’ll be best if we split up, no? Divide the investigating fifty-fifty, maybe?” He dodged the skepticism in Owen’s eyes the best he could with a flip of his hand. “That way, one of us is out in the field and the other is monitoring our clients. It would be a win-win.” </p><p>“I’m not going anywhere near that kid. She and her father are your business.”</p><p>Okay, skepticism no longer was the most of his worries. Curt had half a mind to scoff. Him? Face the brunt of little-miss-sunshine and Jules alone? There was not enough alcohol in the world to prepare him for that. Standing, he walked over to Owen’s side. “No, you’re not getting out of this one that easy, Carvour. Pray tell me why you get to decide my fate?”</p><p>“Curt, if I go with them with my current resolve, very little will stop me from killing them both,” he explained, his arm draped dramatically over himself. If he were trying to make his plight more palpable, he was failing. All it did was make Curt watch him more. A <em> lot </em> more. Not that he was complaining -- Curt would take any excuse to watch him. But, given his current state of mind, the distraction felt more frustrating than welcomed. “This was less of a choice of preference on my part and more of a necessity to not have our clients end up in body bags by my hand.”</p><p>“Amazing show of restraint, Owen. Truly, I see now why the Secret Service handed me you.”</p><p>A dangerous glare met him beneath an elbow.</p><p>“If you must know, I have firm reasoning beyond general annoyance as to why you should go with the Hawires,” he said, rolling over to his side. “The girl was watching you the whole time, Curt. She likes you. I’d figure pawning you off as a distraction is much more cohesive to us not getting killed. Not to mention, you weren’t the one who suggested ridding her from our hands. Jules likes you more. He’d be more inclined to introduce you to possible leads.”</p><p>Curt felt sick. No, no, this was not okay. It was sound reasoning on Owen’s part, and it was impressive he came to such a conclusion so fast while maintaining intense watch on Veronica, but it was far from okay. Curt did not like Veronica. Curt <em> never </em> would like Veronica. Even if Veronica were older and less annoying, he would not. But, Owen could not know that. He could not know that <em> he </em> had more of a hope than Veronica ever would. This conversation was treading dangerous water, and Curt needed to get out fast. Folding his arms, he shook his head. </p><p>“I’m not doing it.”</p><p>“Don’t be tough, Curt.”</p><p>“No. I said I’m not doing it.”</p><p>“It’s one night, and you’re a spy. You took an oath to do whatever is necessary to protect your country. Or, do they do things differently in America?”</p><p>“One night is not worth the hell they’re going to give me,” Curt rambled out, instinctively holding himself around the waist. He knew what was coming and hated every moment of it. “B-Besides, Veronica is not my type!”</p><p>There was a pause. When it ebbed, Owen was staring. “Not your type? What do you mean, not your type?”</p><p>“I mean what I said,” Curt shrugged, stomach dropping. “She’s just not my type. I wouldn’t feel right conning her into thinking she has a chance when she doesn’t. Are you satisfied?”</p><p>Curt watched Owen prop himself up on his elbow so he could see him better, and it made his stomach flutter more uncomfortably than it ever had in his life. There was that same look of mischief and keen understanding in those eyes of his that had made him nervous before. Curt did not want to know what conclusions he was jumping to behind the closed doors of his mind. He begged the universe for the watching to end. </p><p>“I...I could understand if her age was your issue, but she’s a beautiful girl, Curt. What isn’t your type about her?”</p><p>Curt’s mind short circuited as his heart sank. “She just isn’t, okay? Dammit Owen, I thought we agreed to a fresh start with less annoyances. Haven’t we had a rough enough day? Enough crazy mood swings within conversations?”</p><p>“I did not want to fight with you, Curt. I was only curious. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Yeah well,” Curt moved over to where his bags lay and grabbed them into his arms, avoiding Owen’s eyes altogether, “I’d like it if you would give it a fucking rest with your curiosity. I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and, for the record?” He noticed Owen look up from the corner of his eye and resisted the urge to see him,  clutching the hall door frame in his hand. “My type could never be someone I don’t trust. Enjoy your answer.” </p><p>With a heavy sigh, Curt was gone. Hustling down the hall to the bedroom he thankfully had all to himself so he could shove himself inside and scream. The scream never happened, because good lord he would be a mess if Owen heard that, but he certainly made little attempt to make his grand entrance inside anything but chaotic. As soon as the door was slammed behind him, he flipped himself around, let the back of his head hit it, and clenched his teeth so hard, the roots ached.</p><p>So much for the progress on the plane. So much for the stupid crush he had. So much for promises to listen and communicate. In a matter of a few minutes, all because he could not for the life of him just <em> exist </em> like any other guy and had to hold a life-shattering secret, he had fucked everything up again. He had blown up on his partner. He had added unneeded stress to an already stressful day. And, to add a cherry on top of it all, he nearly outed himself. This was why he did not want a partner. This was why he kept to himself more often than not.</p><p>With a groan, he walked forward and threw himself on the bed.</p><p>He needed sleep.</p><p>He hoped to God Owen got some, too.</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>A knock at the door startled him.</p><p>Not that Curt’s sleep was any bit comforting, though. His bed was nice enough and his bathroom did not make any weird noises, but Curt’s mind had not known how to function since he hit the sheets. Anxiety had him replaying his actions, replaying how near he came to revealing his secret all because of some <em> girl. </em> Who would have thought the nuclear war he possibly could cause would be the least of his worries? Who would have known it would have driven him wild and made him as moody as Owen? As he laid in bed staring in the darkness, he understood why Owen might have liked staring out the window before bed. Staring out at the wide world made worries seem so much smaller in context. The knock came before Curt could get up and do that. </p><p>He felt his throat clench. </p><p>A knock could only mean one of two things. One, they had an intruder and Curt was doomed, or two, Owen was wanting to talk. The first seemed more promising. Talking to Owen could result in prolonged torture and even more possibility of issues arising. At least the first option provided a swift death and no secrets being revealed. Shuffling to the door, Curt opened it up to see the second option staring him in the face. Shirtless again. More distressed than he had been that morning. Curt had half a mind to shut the door and run. Nothing good could come from this. He stuttered out a greeting.</p><p>“D-Do you need something?”</p><p>Owen looked unsure what to say. He leaned on the door frame, hands rubbing at themselves, anxiety practically oozing off of him. Curt had been there. He knew something was on the man’s mind, no matter what he chose to withhold. Sighing, he opened the door further and gestured for him to come in. It took a moment and a heck of a lot of thinking on Owen’s part, but he eventually followed inside. For the sake of both of their sanities, the door was left open. Owen stayed away from the bed. </p><p>“Look, Owen, about today-”</p><p>“You can trust me.”</p><p>Curt’s eyes flickered up to meet his. Was he hearing that right? Had Owen woken him up in the middle of the night just to say he trusted him? What was that about? He scratched the back of his neck.</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>His response seemed to frustrate Owen. Shaking his head, he took a step closer to Curt, caught his gaze -- rather, he demanded it -- and outstretched his arm. Curt briefly looked down at it.</p><p>“No, Curt. I...I know trust means a lot to you. And I know I’ve made it quite hard today for you to navigate the trust we have between us by prying and being a moody arse. So, if we’re going to enter into this mission and possibly die by someone else’s hand, I wanted to let you know...you can trust me. Even when I’m being insufferable and all else is failing, I want to be someone you can trust.”</p><p>Curt opened his mouth to speak, but he found his mind was still at a loss. As much as he wanted Owen to be someone he could trust, he wanted to know why this was a conversation to be had in the dead of the night. He wanted to know why, instead of an apology for blowing up, his first instinct was to ensure they had trust still intact. He wanted nothing more than to inquire about it, picking apart every detail. </p><p>But, one look into Owen’s eyes had Curt silenced. And so, without another thought and with their other value of listening in mind, he quietly grabbed Owen’s forearm back.</p><p>The ghost of a smile flashed across his face. Curt did not understand why, but he felt happier because of it.</p><p>Pulling away, Owen gave a few small nods. He took in what happened, whatever happened, and then backed his way back to the door. It was not until his back actually hit the door that he stopped, a small huff jolting out of him. A soft blush graced him then, a rare sight Curt could never be unhappy seeing again, before he slinked away with a quiet murmur of ‘goodnight.’</p><p>It took a full ten minutes for Curt to process what happened.</p><p>It took another five minutes for him to connect some dots.</p><p>Only one minute was needed for him to come to a startling conclusion.</p><p>
  <em> My type could never be someone I don’t trust. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You can trust me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Did Owen just give me permission...to like him? </em>
</p><p>In a second, the whole world began to spin.</p><p>For the second time that night, Agent Curt Mega’s head met the door with an ungraceful thud.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Reasons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Still shaken from his talk with Owen, Curt decides to venture out to prepare for the ball. Owen's emotions pre-ball and post-talk get the best of him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thank you all again for so much love &amp; positivity toward this fic. You all honestly keep me going. Thank you also to everyone who reads along &amp; gives me support while I'm writing, as I've been hitting a bit of writer's block and have found a lot of motivation to keep writing from you. It means a ton! As for this chapter, I'm not //entirely// satisfied with the outcome, but I am excited to show you where everything is heading. The next chapter is the ball, and I have plenty of fun planned. I'd love to get your ideas of what you think might happen after reading this one! </p><p>As always, if you like what you read, shoot me some kudos and/or comments :) Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After a fight, if one could even call it that, as twisted and confusing as the one Curt and Owen had on their first night in Monaco, it could be assumed that discussion would take place in the week following. A quarrel like that needed resolution. The conversation that came after it needed clarification.</p><p>However, that discussion never came. Clarification was ignored. Curt and Owen existed as if neither knew each other, breaking one of their most solemn rules of communication. When Curt would come out for breakfast, Owen was already finished with his and hiding in his room. When Curt would go to sit and read the paper, Owen was either napping or doing one of his crosswords somewhere else. They shared space, but never existed in it at the same time. It drove Curt up a wall. It made him want to scream, if anything, just to hear words enter the thick air surrounding them.</p><p>There were three possible reasons for Owen’s behavior, Curt concluded. One, he knew <em> exactly </em> what he had done during their middle-of-the-night conversation and was too scared to speak, lest it bring it back up and force him to reveal what he might not yet feel ready to say. Curt could understand that. He had held that same fear since that night, enough so on some of the nights that it made him sick. But, he also understood that waiting was slowly killing him, and that it probably was doing the same to Owen, and if they held any hope of not being dead before the ball, they needed to get their acts together and take a chance of secrets being revealed. Or, man up, so to speak.</p><p>The second reasoning for Owen’s behavior had to do with their mission. Perhaps they were just missing each other because Owen set out on a weird schedule to plan their next moves. Perhaps he was sitting at his room’s desk mulling over ideas, agonizing how to best navigate around the Hawires and the potential nuclear threat which sat on their laps to avoid, because it was just <em> that </em> complicated and they needed to be careful. Not to mention, the case file was big -- maybe he was organizing it? Maybe he had entire ideas at the ready and was trying to perfect them before contacting Curt? That could be it. Curt could do anything with any distraction, but maybe Owen was different. He could respect that. Out of all the options, this one was the one he hoped most was true.</p><p>The third reason, on the contrary, was the one Curt dreaded most. Perhaps Owen straight-up hated him. Was it entirely plausible? Probably not. No man who hated someone willingly came into the room of the other to embrace and ensure trust. However, the longer the silence continued, the longer Curt began to wonder. What if he resented him for bringing out emotions from him? What if he resented having to work alongside him, a walking liability? What if he resented having to play babysitter to him throughout the duration of the mission when such high stakes now were at play? It drove Curt wild just to keep such thoughts as valid possibilities. He needed an escape. A release.</p><p>The only option he could think of was to leave the safe house and ignore it was all happening.</p><p>He needed a new suit, anyway.</p><p>Curt concealed his weapon in his trousers as he ran through the plan. It was an easy one, one that barely had more than two steps to it. He would go to an everyday clothing store to buy what he needed as if he were any other customer in Monaco and then come home refreshed and restored. If anyone did speak to him, he would simply pull out his French and charm them into ignoring his presence. All Owen would need to know of the affair would be what he wrote on a small note left on the kitchen counter: <em> Preparing for the mission. Needed some items. Be back soon. -C </em> </p><p>Simple.</p><p>If he had any issue with him leaving, well, he could examine his own self and wonder why Curt felt compelled to take the risk. Or, he could ask his crossword since it was all-so-important and deserving of attention. </p><p>With a gentle shutting of the door, he was gone. They had one car at their disposal, courtesy of the A.S.S., and Curt had little qualms about taking it. It was not as aesthetically pleasing as Owen’s baby blue model back home, but it was functional and could get the job done, as was the standard of anything they handed him for missions. Owen would not miss it for an hour or so. He might not even miss it if the worst happened and Curt totaled or ditched it. </p><p>Curt really hoped he wouldn’t total or ditch it.</p><p>
  <em> Simple. Keep it simple. </em>
</p><p>The mall he found was not far from Monte Carlo. It was unassuming enough. Its architecture was basic and relaxed compared to the extravagance of the Hawire estate. It reminded Curt in some ways of their safe house. The mixture of families which walked in and out of the entrance could easily live there. It comforted him. It allowed him to walk in and toward the suit shop without a worry, aside from Owen, in mind. </p><p>So far, so good.</p><p>Once he greeted the doorman and gently brushed off a worker trying to be helpful, it took Curt about fifteen minutes to settle on a decent option for the ball. It was a steely light blue-colored suit that fit him better than some of his tailored tuxedos. He paired it with a darker midnight blue tie, and though he doubted he would look bad, he was very impressed with how good the look turned out. He felt sharp. On top. Dare he say it, maybe even suave. If he was going to suffer the night around the Hawires, at least he would look impressive doing it. He might even impress Owen, if he were lucky. That could be comforting, all things considered. Without another thought, he bought the outfit and made his way out of the store, refreshed and actually eager for the day to come.</p><p>And then, he bumped into someone.</p><p>“...Veronica?”</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>“Agent Mega!”</p><p>
  <em> Double fuck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So much for simple. </em>
</p><p>His hand could not have clasped over her mouth faster if it had tried. The action garnered a few spare looks from onlookers because, well, it was not every day that a man threw himself to throw a hand over a girl’s mouth in the middle of a crowded mall. But, one flash of his teeth their way pushed them along. He was suave. He could get it done. He did not train with the best to be the best for those charms to fail him in times like this. Turning to her with death in his eyes, he cleared his throat, aghast she would even dare to be so bold in such a public place. She blinked, unfazed. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Are you serious? Veronica, what about my occupation makes you think you can just shout it out in the middle of a shopping center? A <em> busy </em> shopping center? With lots of <em> people? </em>”</p><p>“No one bad is here, you know,” she shrugged. “Everyone’s shopping.”</p><p>Curt felt his blood pressure raise a few points. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Veronica, <em> anyone </em> here could want me dead. Or you. Or your dad! You can never let your guard down, do you understand? Anyone can conceal motives. And guns!”</p><p>“Are you excited for the ball?”</p><p>“What?” Curt could have screamed. “W-Will you just answer me? This is important!”</p><p>“Well, are you?”</p><p>“Oh my God, we’re so dea-”</p><p>“Ooo, did you just buy your outfit? I want to see! Maybe I can get mine to match your-”</p><p>“VERONICA!”</p><p>Veronica jumped, bouncing back on her heels. This time, no amount of smiling could stop the way those onlooking paused in their step to see the commotion. His outburst was loud, and it was noticeable. Very noticeable. Mentally, Curt facepalmed. Cynthia would have punched him square in the jaw for being so publicly unhinged. It was hardly any way for a trained spy to act. Then again, he figured Owen would have done worse in his shoes. Veronica would probably be dead on the floor if he had his way. Curt was doing her a service by not doing the same. He took a step closer to her, the danger returning to his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t say another word to anyone about me, or my job, or this mission. I do not want to hear <em> anything.</em> If I hear anything, I will <em> not </em> hold Owen back this time. You will face a punishment and it will not be pretty or something your father can talk you out of. Got it?”</p><p>Gazing into his eyes, Veronica took a step closer to him. Curt furrowed his brow, confused and partially uncomfortable. “You wouldn’t want to do that to me, would you?”</p><p>“Veronica-”</p><p>“I’ll be quiet,” she said, giggling in a manner most sickening. “But, you’ve got to give me a reason.”</p><p>“No. No way. I’m not striking a bargain with you.”</p><p>“Well, then I can always do something worse, like slip to my girls how I’m going to be attending the ball alongside the arm of one dashing Agent Mega from the American Secret-”</p><p>Curt’s eyes flew open. He had had enough. “Shut the heck up, please! You’re going to get me killed.”</p><p>“Then promise me a dance.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Promise me a dance at the ball,” she said, holding her hand out and smiling, “and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Deal?”</p><p>He had no choice. Oh God, he had no choice. If he was going to keep Veronica quiet and save himself from further compromise by her hand, both literally and figuratively, he had to accept her deal. He could not let his refusal to dance with an overeager girl be what took him down. He could not let that be what took down Owen, either. He truly deserved better than that. </p><p>Reluctant and cursing himself every step of the way, Curt took her hand and struck the deal. Veronica giggled, clapped, and waved to him with a wink as she disappeared into the crowds around them like a ghost in the night, satisfied with the deal’s outcome. Curt gripped his bag tight. If only he could say the same.</p><p>So much for a nice, inconspicuous outing to release anxiety. So much for ignoring the Hawires’ existence.</p><p>Owen was going to kill him.</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>“I should kill you.”</p><p>Curt jumped, stumbling to keep from dropping the bag in his hand. Sitting on the couch, finally showing his presence at a time most convenient to him and least convenient to Curt, was none other than Owen. He looked like the angel of death, waiting there so patiently in his pale pink button-up and beige slacks. Then again, it could have just been Curt’s anxiety over Veronica seeping through and convincing him so. He did look pretty put together for the late afternoon. <em> Did he dress up ‘cause he knew he would see me? No, Curt, focus. Say something witty. Something casual. </em></p><p>“Welcome back to the land of the living, Owen. I figured I’d eventually find your skeleton around here somewhere, the way things were going.”</p><p>“Don’t play me for a fool, Mega.” Curt felt his stomach drop. There was no first name or ‘love’ in that sentence at all. Shit, Owen really was pissed. “Pray tell me why you left our safe house but a <em> day </em> before we are to embark on our mission’s true purpose, surrounded by individuals who constantly bump arms with the men wanting to drive our world into nuclear destruction? Is it in that bag?”</p><p>Curt had never felt so small among words.</p><p>“Did you read my note?”</p><p>“Oh, I read your note my dear.” The tone by which Owen delivered the endearment made Curt's skin clammy. As great as an endearment delivered at the hand of Owen Carvour sounded in theory, this was far from enjoyable. It was far from the type of thing he could celebrate. In fact, Curt wished it gone the moment it entered the world. He shifted, the discomfort building. “I read it and then promptly hit my head against the wall for thinking I could leave you without instruction or supervision. Are you mad? Truly?”</p><p>Curt crossed his arms, feeling even smaller. “Can we do without the condescension, Carvour?”</p><p>“Clearly not.”</p><p>Owen stood then, making his way over to his clammy partner. He paused about a foot away from him before folding his arms and staring down the bag. It was as if it were the most repulsive thing he had ever seen. Curt felt like dropping it and running, the look was so cold. “Our lack of communication these past few nights was a mutual issue, that I cannot deny. And I apologize for it. But, your decision to plan a ‘trip out’ after my explicit orders against improvisation was all your own doing. And if it gets us killed tomorrow, I will haunt your afterlife for it.”</p><p>“All I did was buy a suit, okay?”</p><p>“And how many individuals saw you do that, Curt?” Owen took a step closer, coming just close enough to where Curt could tangibly <em> feel </em> his gaze and disappointment. It sent a chill down his spine. “Ten? Twenty? A hundred? You clearly made a transaction, so a few people even heard your voice. I have no doubt you said more than a few words to them, given your personality and general lack of care for detail.”</p><p>“Okay, hold the fuck up, Owen, the only person I spoke to was Veronica, and-”</p><p>“You spoke to <em> Veronica? </em>”</p><p>Oh <em>god</em>. Owen really was going to kill him.</p><p>“You literally could not have picked a worse person to interact with,” he groaned, stepping away to wipe his hands across his face in what Curt could only assume was agony. He wished he could do the same. Fear had an awful way of freezing him up on the spot, though. He was lucky he could still breathe. “Oh, what am I going to do with you, Curt?”</p><p>“Owen, I-”</p><p>“Do you have an explanation, at least? A reason why you did this?”</p><p>“She ran into me,” Curt replied, slow and cautious. “S-She gave me an ultimatum to dance with her at the ball if I didn’t want her to blow our cover.”</p><p>“And you said yes, I'm assuming?”</p><p>“Yes. Of course.”</p><p>Sighing, Owen walked back to the couch and plopped himself down. He paused for a moment to run his hands through his hair, probably to keep himself from another outburst, and then leaned back into the cushions. When his eyes met Curt’s again, Curt dared to think they appeared slightly less frightening than before. He had no clue why, because frankly he felt like he deserved and was soon going to be the target of some absolute vengeance, but he certainly was grateful. If he was alive, he could at least try to figure out how to mend things. That was better than the alternative, right? </p><p>“If you leave this safe house or any other building again when we are off our mission without disclosing it to me in person first, I will not hesitate to shoot you on sight. Are we understood?”</p><p>Curt swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. “Understood.”</p><p>“Go put your suit away. We’ll discuss more of the specifics of tomorrow’s mission over dinner in thirty.”</p><p>As much as he wanted to say more, or inquire what exactly they would be having at dinner, Curt knew better than to push Owen further. He knew better than to not take that easy out and count his lucky stars Owen did not shoot him on sight, as proposed. Thinking Owen might like him was torturous, but thinking he disliked him was a feeling Curt did not wish to perpetuate or exacerbate. He ran off to his room without another word, shoving the thought down as deep as he could with each step.</p><p>As soon as he disappeared down the hall, Owen gazed in his direction, shook his head, and rubbed his face once more.</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>Dinner went as smooth as a post-fight dinner full of awkward tension and questionable emotions could go. They deliberated movements over a vegetable dish down to nit-picky details. Every moment was calculated so as to avoid any more mishaps. On any other occasion, Curt would find it all a bit boring and stuck up. With him fresh off of nearly fucking up the mission, however, he accepted it without a word. <em> Whatever makes Owen less likely to kill me</em>, he thought. </p><p>There was no room for small talk or for joking at that table. When the two disappeared to go to their rooms for bed, not even a cordial farewell found airspace. They were, essentially, back to a strictly business relationship. It was for the best...not that it made Curt hate it any less. </p><p>He had a restless sleep that night. Tossing and turning, he could not help but suffer at the hand of his inner demons. He could not help feeling his heart go to war with his mind, his training, and everything else that was screaming for him to get a grip. It tortured him. It continued to torture him when he woke up as well, racing faster than a sports car in his chest. He was a mess. He was a liability. He was ready to call up Cynthia and say he could not take it anymore. </p><p>And then, his alarm beeped, giving him no choice but to do the mission anyway. </p><p>Oh, the life of a spy.</p><p>Breakfast and lunch were eaten alone and in silence. Preparing for the ball was also a solo affair, though Curt’s demons had a field day keeping him company in his mind. He loved hearing them tell him how Owen hated him for sure now as he did his hair, gelling it back and ensuring not a single hair fell out of place. They were especially comical while he put on his suit, jumping between making him doubt his spy abilities and Owen’s potential liking of him. They were a regular comedy troupe. By the time he had his gun safely tucked away and his communicator secured on his wrist, he could recite their abuse like his own routine. He stepped out of his room and into the living room wanting nothing more than to disappear, to forget the world, to forget Owen Carvour.</p><p>Immediately coming face-to-face with him did wonders to change that up.</p><p>He was dashing -- no, not just dashing. Owen Carvour was never just dashing. He was <em> incredibly </em> dashing. A breath of fresh air simultaneously combined with the most intense sucker punch to the gut. He was decked out head to toe in maroon. Curt had never imagined Owen in maroon, but one look at the sight of it had him shaken. It made maroon his favorite color. He could not imagine a better color. </p><p>Speaking of, he also could not imagine a better color than Owen’s eyes. God, could they have complimented an outfit in a more stunning way than they did then? They might as well have been coordinated. Accessorized jewels placed there for an added touch. One would never know the agony, the ferocity, or the strain they endured in the past few hours at Curt’s hand if they gazed upon them. They were gorgeous. </p><p>Curt felt his knees grow weak.</p><p>In a fit of emotion, he moved to grip the crown molding around the hallway entrance to brace himself.</p><p>It was loud enough to alert Owen.</p><p>
  <em> Owen. </em>
</p><p>Of all the reactions Curt imagined Owen to have at figuring out his presence there, many of them consisted of anger. At least, calculated anger. Here they were, about to trek off into a dangerous mission that Curt had made even more dangerous, and Curt was daydreaming and looking like a sorry excuse for a spy. Unable to even stand properly. He imagined Owen finding him pathetic. He imagined maybe getting something sneered back at him. Perhaps a quip about Veronica. </p><p>What he did not imagine was what he did face. There stood Owen, just as doe-eyed as Curt imagined himself to look, just as frozen, and just as unsure of how to act next. The great Owen Carvour, the reasoning to Curt’s spur-of-the-moment brain, was <em> shaken. </em> That got Curt’s heart fluttering more. That made his grip tighter on the wood. If Owen noticed, he was too caught up in his mind to say anything about it. Curt did not think either of them would ever be able to break the stare.</p><p>And then, Owen cleared his throat, turned away, and pretended to fiddle with the car keys.</p><p>“I take it you are ready to go, old boy?”</p><p>Curt could hardly even stutter out a reply. Receiving silence, Owen went on to fill it. </p><p>“I’ve been informed by my superiors that a few of Maxim’s cohorts will be in attendance tonight. Pay close attention to names and accents, as well as any information surrounding deliveries or new purchases. Given the scale of their scheme, I highly doubt they will be obvious, but any slip up we can gain ground on will be crucial to our cause.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>Owen turned around. He found Curt still partially stunned and, unable to stop himself from such a display of emotion, <em> laughed </em> . It was a fond laugh, short and airy and everything Curt had wanted to hear from him, but also his worst nightmare. He was expecting a sneer or chiding blathering about how he was going to be their downfall for being such an air-headed dope. He hardly expected a <em> laugh, </em>let alone one like Owen’s. One he could fall for. Was he seriously being so bold? Were they seriously doing this? Curt gasped for air. Owen, turning back and shaking his head, let it pass unchecked. He could slip up once, but it appeared he was not willing to slip up again. At least, not yet. Curt froze even harder.</p><p>
  <em> Maybe reason number one had not been too far off after all... </em>
</p><p>“Curt, are you coming?”</p><p>Blinking, Curt looked up to see Owen had moved from his previous spot. He now found himself at the door, keys in one hand and the doorknob in the other. He was ready and waiting. Ready and waiting for Curt, his dazed partner who was such a risk but still somehow allowed to be on his side. He felt himself gaze at him for a beat too long before nodding and jogging over. He tried not to let the smell of Owen’s cologne or the way his gentle ‘hmph’ of approval once Curt arrived at his side shake him further. He tried to be calm. He tried to be suave. He had to think of their mission.</p><p>There would be plenty of time to think about Owen Carvour later.</p><p>He had to pull it together.</p><p><em> Time to be a </em> spy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. A Ball, A Few Mistakes, And Russian Interference</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The ball is finally here, and Curt and Owen have to figure out how to navigate its twists and turns while still achieving their mission's objectives. Curt gets a message from an important figure.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Howdy everyone! If you're looking at this and wondering why it's up on Sunday and not Friday, I blame 1) my writer's block, 2) having company over for the first time in forever, and 3) the fact I sat rewriting this three times over trying to get it right. Gotta love perfectionism! I hope the wait is worth it. A lot happens this chapter, and I am really curious how you all will react to it! Please do let me know through comments &amp; kudos as always. Hope you all are doing well, and enjoy! :) </p><p>ALSO: WE HIT 25K EXACTLY LETS GOOOOOO</p><p>(PS: There's a moment in this chapter where someone gets kissed on the cheek without wanting it. It's not super detailed and super short, but if that might upset you, I've added lines around the specific part of the scene so you can skip around it. It shouldn't disrupt your ability to get the plot!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Agent Curt Mega had experienced four balls/galas in his short time as a spy. </p><p>They all generally followed a similar format. The setting would be a bigger ballroom with a bar and some kind of staircase -- there <em> always </em> was a staircase. Sometimes, a piano sat in the corner of the room, or a band if the hosts were feeling extra jovial. Half of the guests would dance, while the other half mingled. Curt usually was in charge of speaking with the minglers. He would put on his best suave persona, hold his head up high, and strut his stuff under a fake name to get into their good graces. It was where he succeeded the most. </p><p>No one would know it after overhearing any of his conversations with Owen, but Curt kind of had a way with words while on the job.</p><p>If he was lucky, and if he did a decent job of mingling at balls, Curt would sometimes unlock secondary missions. These were missions that revealed themselves through those less guarded with their words. A simple slip up of the location of blueprints, artifacts, or the occasional hostage he could interrogate always led to something more. Curt loved it. He loved having to be extra vigilant, to inspect motives and placements with strategic precision. As soon as he had all he needed, he was as good as a bloodhound in retrieving what was needed. It was part of why Cynthia saw him as such an asset. It was why she put so much trust in him at his younger age of twenty three. </p><p>Sometimes, he just was <em> that </em> good.</p><p>Curt hoped, as his and Owen’s ride approached its destination, that perhaps he would find a secondary mission that night. Heaven knew he did not enjoy the thought of his main mission. Perhaps he could find a secondary mission that would make all of that go away in both his and others’ minds. He had been down and out seemingly ever since he had met Owen, always one step behind. Maybe a victory could change that. A victory could steer him back on track. It could place him back on top as the best America has to offer. </p><p>It could maybe even impress Owen, if he were lucky enough.</p><p>“We need to rendezvous each hour at a given location.” </p><p>The man himself had Curt mesmerized. He was straightening out his cuffs and slicking back his hair like a leading man from a movie scene. Everything about him screamed a juxtaposition of ‘you should talk to me if you know what is best for you’ and ‘stay away.’ It dizzied Curt. It made him wonder how lethal Owen could be if he were given the chance, because who could possibly resist him? Who could look him in the eye and not willingly walk to their demise at his command? He was captivating. Distracting. Entirely too good at what he was doing and ready to get the job done, come hell or high water. Even if he were to come up short that night, something about Owen told Curt they would obtain their intended information somehow. He just had that look about him.</p><p>“I’ll let you pick the first one, ol’ chap.” He raised his voice to recapture Curt’s attention. It took a second, but recognition soon reappeared in his hazel eyes bright enough to make Owen smile through his words, despite himself.“ Though, I do suggest you find somewhere inconspicuous. Somewhere many already gather.”</p><p>Inconspicuous. That was easy. Curt had the exact place he would choose in mind before they even stepped into the white palace of a building. He had pictured the place when they had discussed the ball the first time. <em> The bar. </em> A small scanning of the crowd had him pointing to a red-hued one not too far from where they stood. It was only minutes in, and this bar was jammed full. It was the perfect place to exist, and anyone who noticed their discussions would surely be too drunk to remember them come morning at the rate they were going. One look at Owen told Curt he was pleased with his choice. It made Curt feel proud. Owen would never admit it, but it made him proud as well. He slid his hands into his pockets, casting a watchful gaze around the room.</p><p>“Alright then,” he sighed. “Remember what we discussed about keeping your communicator handy. If anything falls awry, they will stand as our main mode of contact.”</p><p>“And if I can’t speak?”</p><p>“Turn it on anyway,” he shrugged, daring to risk meeting Curt’s eyes again. “Noise is better than silence when in danger, love.”</p><p>Even if he had had something to retort, the pet name took it away before it had any chance to leave Curt’s lips. His hand ghosted over his wrist, Owen’s words ringing in his mind. </p><p>
  <em> Pull yourself together, Curt. </em>
</p><p>“For what it is worth, I do hope the Hawires do not prove too tough on you tonight,” Owen added, double checking that his gun was secure at his side with a pat or two. “I know I have been hard on you about them, but I cannot imagine it will be easy existing in their presence for so long. Might that be why you chose the bar?”</p><p>Curt huffed, ready to deflect. “Eh, well, I’ll just do what I do when Cynthia, my boss, goes off at me: drown out what I don’t care to really hear.” He paused. “You didn’t hear that from me, by the way. I fear nuclear holocaust as much as the next guy, but if she ever found out I said that, she’d drop ten times as many bombs on me and shoot me in the process, and I’m much less prepared for that.”</p><p>Owen’s smile grew blinding. “She sounds like a riot. But do not worry, your secrets are safe with me, Curt. Now, before we part, you remember what we agreed upon? Our identities?”</p><p>How could Curt forget? They had spent more than a decent amount of time choosing their names during their serious dinner conversation the night before. It had been perhaps one of the few moments Curt thought they might break the seriousness, as suffocating as it had been. Owen’s indignant scoffs at some of Curt’s suggestions seemed too amused to indicate any real malice. They had given him hope. His contentment with his final choice had taken that hope and multiplied it. The feeling lingered as Curt rehearsed it back to Owen. </p><p>“Theo Bisset. Aged twenty three. Native of Nantes. I moved here two years ago after receiving my education in business to capitalize on the ceramics industry. And you, ol’ boy?”</p><p>“Antoine Beaulieu,” he spoke, diving right into a practiced French accent -- it sent Curt reeling. “Twenty four. I’m an up-and-coming model who has traveled from Montpellier to explore the scene in Monaco. I am otherwise in town for the month on vacation.”</p><p>Owen needed to do little to ensure his cover was believable. The man <em> looked </em> and sounded the part of a model. He had to knock Curt down a few notches to get to ceramics dealer, but when he brought up his suggestion, Curt had no complaints. Rightfully so. Daring to flash a wink, Curt held out his arm as he had in the bedroom on that one critical night seemingly so long ago, palm outstretched and waiting. He watched Owen’s eyes widen, but cut him off before he could figure out something to say.</p><p>“I do believe I’ll see you later then at the bar, Antoine.” </p><p>It was spoken like a question, and Owen did not have to say anything to hand Curt an answer. The look of amusement, the sheer way his eyes <em> sparkled </em> for a flash of time at the thought, and the tight grasp Curt received back was answer enough. Trust existed in that moment. Trust and something more, but Curt did not pry. They had all the time in the world after their mission to pry. Right then, they were partners. Partners who trusted each other and were about to begin to save the world. One look in Owen’s eyes made Curt hopeful they could do it. He hoped the gleam in his eyes meant Owen felt the same.</p><p>They parted just as the Hawires appeared. Curt watched, nostalgic, as Owen disappeared into the crowd -- a deep garnet jewel in a sea of less-important faces. For a moment, his breath left him. His eyes grew misty. He felt compelled to chase after him. </p><p>And then, that moment ended with a shrill giggle. </p><p>Veronica, dressed in a fluffy green dress, was approaching. Jules was behind her, another cigar in hand, his black cane tapping the floor and matching his suit. He gave Curt a hearty hello that was met with a breathless ‘hi’ hardly fit for a spy. Curt fought with himself to refocus. He fought to listen to Jules describing a long list of people he wanted him to meet. He fought to listen to Veronica’s ramblings, as trivial as they were. He fought to forget that Owen was somewhere else in the room, working his magic on others, demonstrating his worth. </p><p>
  <em> Forget and push on. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Be a spy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Gotta go. </em>
</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>It took thirty minutes for Agent Curt Mega to take over. Separation from Owen did wonders for the mind, and Curt found himself soon falling back into his normal routine. He worked first to charm a few older ladies -- all distinguished women, not suspect at all. He then moved on to discussing the economy with an older gentleman. His name was Horaldo Montegras, a finance mogul from Spain who handled business dealings with Jules every so often. Curt was more suspicious of this man because of his line of work, but his words did not give him any extra reasons. In fact, he was far more pleasant to be around than Jules. Infinitely so. Curt regretted he could not speak with him longer. </p><p>
  <em> Focus. </em>
</p><p>Three other individuals came and went from their side without cause for concern. Veronica tried here and there during their discussions to wrap her arm around Curt’s waist or arm, taking advantage of his deflected attention, but he was too wise for her. He dodged her in any way he could: shaking hands, scratching his head, and clasping his hands together in feigned amusement at the dumbest of things. It was a win-win tactic: Veronica was brushed off, and the people felt more comfortable around him because of his enthusiasm. </p><p>It worked well until Veronica had enough. Before he could dodge her, she pulled him straight into the dance floor, breaking off a conversation midway through and causing him to stumble into her. </p><p>She smiled, but Curt could not have frowned harder had he tried.</p><p>“Talk is boring, let’s dance,” she sang as she twirled them both around. The music was faster than the traditional waltz. It complemented her madness. Curt found himself fighting back a groan. “You’re working too hard anyway, Curt.”</p><p>“<em> Theo </em>,” he growled through gritted teeth, “and it might have slipped your mind, but I’m here for business, not pleasure.”</p><p>“Mmm, but that’s so <em> boring </em>.” </p><p>“Seriously Veronica, I-”</p><p>“You promised me a dance.” Their spinning stopped, Veronica’s heel dragging across the marble flooring. She raised her brow. “Do I need to remind you of our little agreement?”</p><p>No. Curt had been dreading and loathing each memory of it ever since it was struck. It might as well have been sitting on a neon sign everywhere he went. He could never forget it as long as its dark cloud hung over him and his mission.</p><p>“One dance,” he told her, tone parental. “That’s it.”</p><hr/><p>It was it, but at what cost? Veronica wrapped her arms around his waist then, and he prayed to everything that Owen was otherwise occupied -- not that he would believe something silly like Curt ever being interested in her. He just did not deserve such a sight. He froze as lips pressed against his cheek, furthering the nightmare. </p><p>“No worry. One dance was all I needed to do that,” she giggled.</p><p>Curt could have thrown himself into a river. </p><hr/><p>He really considered it when she began to dance with him, resting her head on his shoulder as if the dance were some dreamy moment at prom. This was not how the mission was supposed to go. This was no indication of their relationship, if he could even call it that. Veronica was his client. If Barb did something like this, at least it would have grown under the premise of friendship, but no. This was Veronica wanting to parade someone around and being too naive to realize the implications. He hated that he had let her drag him this far under without stopping it. </p><p>“I’m not doing this.”</p><p>Her dark eyes fluttered. “Excuse me?”</p><p><em> Please hurry to the bar, Owen. </em> “I work for your family, but I don’t have to deal with your shenanigans. Sorry, but I’m out.”</p><p>“I’ll tell my friends, then! You watch!”</p><p>Curt brushed her off with his hand. “Go for it. I could care less.”</p><p>Truthfully, he cared a lot. He cared so much and had a horrible feeling growing in his gut that this was a bad idea. But, he cared more about his sanity. He would rather fight off an entire fleet of enemies than continue being her little prize. Hopefully the alcohol and seeing Owen again could save the night for him. </p><p>Speaking of Owen, he showed up at Curt’s side five minutes into him diving through a tall glass of whiskey on the rocks. He looked far less disheveled than his partner. His hair was still kept, his suit was still in place. He had a new air of concern about him when Curt acknowledged him, though. That much was certain. Curt raised his glass to him in greeting. </p><p>“I hate this,” he grumbled, shaking his head at the drink as if it were the origin of all his problems. “I hate this mission, I hate her. I just hate it.”</p><p>“Veronica? Why?”</p><p>“Get this: she kissed me.”</p><p>“<em>Oh. </em>”</p><p>A rush of breath left Owen. Curt nodded in the midst of it, wiping at his lips. He knew the feeling. What he did not know was the way Owen’s gaze grew bleary. The way his heart looked to be sinking for anyone to see, uncovered in a momentary slip of the mask. It intensified the longer Curt stared off toward his drink, but Curt droned on, none the wiser. “It was just on the cheek, but still. If she needs rescuing from captors or something later, she better hope I’m not the one having to do it. ‘Cause I’ll leave her.”</p><p>“<em>Theo</em>.”</p><p>“What, I will!”</p><p>Owen motioned for the attention of the attending bartender. He ordered a beer as soon as she scurried over, slipping her some money. “I highly doubt your superiors would be too happy with that.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, my superiors never said my mission would call on me to be held hostage by someone with no common sense,” Curt grumbled. He watched Owen bring his bottle to his lips and turned away, realizing what a sight it would be to see. “Anyway, enough of my failures. What about you? Any luck sleuthing, Mr. Antoine, famous model extraordinaire?”</p><p>Owen huffed out a pitiful laugh. “I suppose so. There is going to be a shipment dropped on the coast in a week and a half. I know the time and the place, but I’m still unclear who will be there.”</p><p>Curt blinked at him, eyes wide. “You suppose? Fuck, that’s a whole lead! What did you have to do to get that information? Sell your soul?”</p><p>“Make out with a wealthy wife of one of the suppliers.”</p><p>Curt’s glass hit the table. “Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I think you might need something stronger than that beer then, ol’ pal.”</p><p>They shared a glance. It was one of those glances where no words were spoken, but an entire conversation took place. Curt could see an unspoken question in Owen’s eyes. He noted without making much fuss of it how his hand tightened around his bottle -- for reasons he could not decipher, possibly because of his whiskey. It seemed to last a lifetime. It made Curt way too conscious of himself. It nearly caused him to nervously laugh and say something stupid before Owen broke it off, moving instead to raise his bottle. Curt, understanding the sentiment and way more grateful than Owen could ever realize for the distraction, raised his and clinked it. They both took a swig, happy to move on. </p><p>“Besides Veronica, anyone else monopolize your time?”</p><p>“A few people here and there,” Curt said as he cast his eyes up at the lighting over the bar. “If you need to make any financial decisions while we’re still in Monaco, I know a guy now. He was pretty nice. And Spanish.”</p><p>Owen nibbled at his fingernail. “I will keep that in mind.”</p><p>“Are you going to talk to that lady again?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The wife,” he asked between a sip of his drink, feeling the self-destructive behavior coming on. “Are you going to try and get more information out of her? She seemed...helpful.”</p><p>Owen looked down at the bar. “I was not planning on it.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“I suppose I did not think you would be okay with me fooling around on the job,” he said. His voice sounded far more detached than Curt anticipated. He stared at his drink, wondering if it were to blame for hearing such a thing, or if he really was going a bit too far with his destruction. He chewed at his lip. </p><p>“Just because I can’t bear being around Veronica doesn’t mean you have to avoid getting intel in a show of sympathy.”</p><p>“But-”</p><p>“Do what you need to do, Owe,” he implored, reaching to touch Owen’s arm. “Don’t let me stand in your way.”</p><p>It was far from what Owen wanted to hear. Curt realized that the moment the nickname came out. Owen shut his eyes tight and tensed more than he had ever seen him tense. After a pause, he downed the rest of his beer whole, slammed it on the table, and pushed himself away from the bar. Curt watched in a mixture of confusion and sadness as Owen took a second to stare at him, scrutinizing. It was as if he did not understand what he had said, either. Completely valid, in Curt’s opinion.  The scrutiny and pained look that accompanied it  went away like a flash as Owen disappeared back into the crowd, rushing away. </p><p>Curt turned back to his drink, a wave of nausea washing over him.</p><p>Had he just told Owen to go get with some lady? After potentially jeopardizing their cover and turning it into a pity party for himself? And calling him a personal nickname -- something previously saved only for Owen? Was he serious? Was this really happening? Was his underlying jealousy really manifesting itself into pushing Owen into the arms of another?</p><p>What the hell was he doing?</p><p>He needed to speak to someone not attached to the situation. He needed to clear his head. Maybe then, he could go and try to fix the mess he was making with some semblance of professionalism. </p><p>He downed his drink as fast as he could, wiped his mouth, and headed in the direction of the backdoor area. </p><p>He needed an escape.</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>A side room not far past the back kitchens became the home for his pity party. It was spacious enough that he could pace, but secluded enough Curt would not be disturbed or judged for his frustrations. He enjoyed it. He liked not hearing the rumble of people or seeing just how much he was failing to be a spy in the faces of all the people he did not speak to. It let him think, to and for himself.</p><p>He was able to think about Veronica without her getting in the way. What would her spilling the beans to her friends really do to them, if it did ultimately come to that? How could it hurt their mission? Would those girls even be able to tell anyone important enough that it would become a severe liability? Would Owen come under fire, or would it be his cross to bear alone? </p><p>He was also able to think about Owen. Why the hell had he reacted the way he did? Seriously, Owen told him he made out with a random woman, and the first thing he did was tell him to go after her while he downed his drink? Seriously? He could bash his head against the wall. Completely valid security risks to Owen aside, that was <em> totally </em> not the way to go about handling your crush liking someone else! What was he thinking? Throwing him at her? Just because he was down on himself for his part of the mission? Unprofessional and unacceptable did not even begin to explain such a grievance as what he did. If Owen never acknowledged him again, he would understand completely.</p><p>Of course, if Owen never acknowledged him again, he might just curl up in a ball and die.</p><p>Curt needed another drink.</p><p>That other drink eluded him, however. As he turned on his heels, a figure caught his eye and shoved him backwards off his balance in one swift motion. Curt’s back slammed against the wall, the breath knocked out of him. An arm pressed against his neck, restricting any further attempts for fighting. Curt choked out a gasp behind it. Two piercing blue eyes stared back at him, menacing, uncaring. </p><p>
  <em> How the hell did he get in here? </em>
</p><p>“Ahh, Agent Mega, you know better than to leave yourself so vulnerable.”</p><p>That was not good. Curt knew for certain he had never come across this burly, blue-eyed, raven-haired man in his life. Whoever he was, whatever he was up to, he was dangerous. And incredibly sneaky. And possibly onto them. Curt’s mind flashed to his gun and his communicator as the chokehold grew more restrictive. Maybe it wasn’t so bad Owen was away and distracted. At least he would be safe from this.</p><p>“Some spy you are for being America’s greatest. Dearest Cynthia’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel, isn’t she?” </p><p>The man’s accent was unclear. That was the first thing Curt noticed as he spoke. He figured it had a slight American drawl to it, sort of like the Hawires, but there was another language hidden beneath his words that boasted a different country. Whatever it was, it was not Russian. Curt knew a Russian accent well. Cynthia had drilled it into his head and repertoire as soon as he joined the secret service, and with all that practice, he could sniff it out even when well hidden. But, it not being Russian did little to calm his nerves. If it was not Russian, why was this man after him? Did that mean he did not know Maxim, or was his reach even larger than they suspected? He struggled a bit against his grasp.</p><p>“W-What do you want?” </p><p>“Lucky for you, what I want from you is fairly simple, Agent Mega. You see,” he said, pulling a gun from his trousers and waving it around Curt’s face for emphasis, “much like your work here tonight, you are not exactly the most...<em> discrete </em> agent. Anyone and their mother knows you aren’t here to dance around with girls and sample the liquor. You’re partnering with the British to try and take down a certain friend of mine.”</p><p>“You can’t prove that.”</p><p>The man tapped Curt’s forehead with the gun. “Ah, but I can. Just like I can prove that you ditched your client on the dance floor like she was garbage.” </p><p>Seeing Curt flinch, the man laughed. Curt felt the gun slide against his skin once again. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. She’s not in any trouble. You see, she is of, how you say, no <em> consequence </em> to us. You, however, are quite the thorn in the side of my friend. Hence, why we’re here having this lovely chat.”</p><p>“Try all you want, but Maxim’s getting nothing from me.”</p><p>A wicked smile met Curt. “Oh, so you know the man. Maybe you aren’t so dumb.”</p><p>“Will you get on with this? I’m getting bored.”</p><p>That earned Curt a swift knee to the gut. He coughed and sputtered, but the arm on his neck restrained him from being to do much else. He feared how much longer he would be able to handle its weight before it started inhibiting his actions. Cannot exactly stop a man from shooting you when you cannot breathe, after all. The man slid the barrel across Curt’s cheek.</p><p>“Maxim is not exactly happy with your whole, ‘lack of discretion.’ You see, he likes his business. He likes peace, too. You and your little friend, well...you pose a threat to that. A threat to our world order, so to speak. This little mission of yours might send us all into World War III if we keep up this jazz of sneaking around and not minding our own business. Max can’t have that. And neither can I,” he chirped. </p><p>Without warning, Curt collided with the floor. His arms and knees reached out, protecting him from his fall, but the harshness of the marble flooring and the lack of air he received from the arm on his neck left him too incapacitated for it to be beneficial. He might as well have been suckerpunched on the way down. Reaching for his gun would be pointless. Reaching for his communicator’s transmission button with the little bit of strength he had, covering it up by rubbing at his neck, however, was not. </p><p>Owen might have been MIA, but Curt would be damned if he did not at least try to reach him. </p><p>The gun clicked.</p><p>“You’re so weak.” </p><p>To no surprise of his own, the barrel was pointed right at his forehead. Curt swallowed hard, feeling his heart start to race. This was not good. Not good at all. He needed to start thinking fast. “However, we cannot let you keep going on unchecked. I hope you can understand.”</p><p>“M-My people will get you. Even if you kill me, you’ll never get away with it. They’ll figure it out.”</p><p>The man chuckled. Apparently, he saw through Curt’s attempt at buying time rather easily. <em> Dammit. </em> “I’d love to see them try. Now, kneel.”</p><p>“You won’t let me at least buy you dinner first?”</p><p>Curt yelped as a foot slammed into his arm. “Get the fuck up.”</p><p>Unlike the first time, Curt did not have much of a chance to deny this mystery man’s request. A cold stare and a harsh hand pulled him straight up by his wrist -- the one on his injured arm, Curt noticed with feigned delight. To his further delight, such a motion was just enough of a jerk for his suit to sink back and his wrist to reveal itself. Before Curt had a chance to process it, his communicator was out for all to see. The man shook his head and tsked. </p><p>“Rookie mistake.”</p><p>Curt’s communicator was blown off his hand in a matter of seconds. It happened so fast and so quietly that the heat of the bullet took a moment to register on his skin. Thankfully, it did not penetrate it. Barb had worked hard in her lab to make sure that never happened, bless her. But dang, did it sting. </p><p>Unable to help himself, Curt let out a wail. The man laughed in the face of it. He let out a chuckle that sent ice into Curt’s veins, stepped closer, and showed Curt through an absolutely terrifying smile that he was very confident he could get off another clean shot without a fight from him. </p><p>Curt felt just as confident right before the second bullet entered his side.</p><p>He wailed louder than he ever had in his life to the tune of dark laughter above.</p><p>“Consider that a warning,” the man spat, kicking him once more for good measure. “Forget the mission, forget Maxim, or the next one’s lethal. Goodnight, agent.”</p><p>The next thing he knew, Curt was alone. </p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>He had no idea how long he had been down.</p><p>The world he saw when he opened his eyes spun. The lights shifted from too bright to too dark. The floor felt colder than he remembered. He had a hard time focusing on anything besides the aching in his side and the way his coughs began to take over his breathing. In any other mission, this would be when he called for help. A backup. An evac. Anything. </p><p>This was not any other mission, though. Curt had fucked up this mission. He had watched his communicator, his one failsafe, get shot off his own wrist before his partner could even have the chance to get to him all because of his mistakes. And now, to add insult to injury, he had the lovely benefit of bleeding out on the floor alone as he thought of it. Choking on his own mistakes. Suffocating on the pain of not getting the job done.</p><p>He hardly registered the sound of footsteps rushing toward him, the anguish too much to bear.</p><p>“Curt!”</p><p>On some level, Curt knew it was Owen. He knew the voice. He could see the mop of brown hair and the blob of maroon that was his suit. But, he could not process it fully. His brain was too overloaded for it to tell him what happened, or even to offer an apology. It only had the strength to whimper. To be pliant in his hands as he scooped him off the ground. To gravitate toward the warmth of his body as the world changed around him. To mumble Owen’s name as he fell in and out of consciousness. </p><p>Had he held that consciousness for a while, or at least long enough to recognize what was happening, he might have noticed a few things about Owen that would have compelled him to stay awake. For one, he might have seen the sheer look of horror and pain that haunted his partner’s eyes. He might have heard Owen whispering to him to stay alive, to keep breathing just a little longer, to trust him that he would be alright. He might have witnessed the way Owen practically screamed into his communicator for an evac the moment they were gone from the building. The way he fought his superiors to get them an immediate clearance to travel to the nearest MI6-surveillanced hospital. The way he shushed Curt’s helpless whines the whole way through.</p><p>It might have changed Curt’s opinion of Owen that night, had he seen. He might have been able to push past the random lady incident and all the awkwardness involved in order to realize he and Owen were really on a similar page when it all came down to it. That he had nothing to worry about. That, deep down, beneath the sturdy exterior and professional attitude, Owen legitimately was scared to lose him. His partner. His new <em> friend. </em></p><p>But, he did not see. He rested between the arms of Owen, the cushions of a van, various stretchers, and one hospital cot in the back of an MI6 facility, clinging to life. Scared. Suffering.</p><p>Alive thanks to the efforts of one Owen Carvour, never leaving his side, ready to suffer with him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Conversations And Emotions Do Not Mix</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fresh off of the failed gala, Curt and Owen debrief. A secret is revealed, putting the future of Curt and Owen's partnership in limbo.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! I think I might put my upload date as each Sunday now, given it's been that way for the past few chapters. So look for that! Anyway, this is a very conversation-heavy chapter. If it seems kind of jumping from one thing to the next, that's the goal! These two are kind of jumping through a lot at this point. It all has a purpose though, so strap on in, hold on tight, and keep things in mind for later chapters. </p><p>I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think in the comments -- they help me WAY more than you'd know! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everything was so...<em>bright. </em></p><p>Curt scrunched up his nose. It was as if he had the sun staring down on him, <em> right </em> on him, only there was a significant absence of hot air than he remembered the sun exuding. This air around him was cold, wherever he was. He <em>f</em><em>elt </em>cold. He also felt heavy, as if the sun were resting on top of him as well. Moving his fingers, as a matter of fact, felt like lifting individual suns one by one. It could barely happen.</p><p>The smell of bleach filled his lungs. Bleach meant he could be in one of two places: the basement of some place he probably would die at, or a hospital. If he could open his eyes without them burning from light, he would like to think he would find himself in the second. He did not like the idea of going out on the sour terms he last remembered himself in. There were not many, but Curt had a few people who deserved a proper goodbye from him. He would like to make good on that if he could.</p><p>The first bit of comforting evidence toward the second location was the beeping. God, it was incessant and way too loud, but beeping was good. Beeping meant there were monitors, and Curt had not seen many captors with monitors on their captives. It was very promising. The second was the faint sound of others. People. They were far from intelligible and sounded more like TV characters rambling on a screen in another room, but they were comforting. Even if he were being held, those others could hear him. He could find help. He could <em> escape. </em></p><p>The last bit of evidence, however, told Curt exactly what he needed to feel instant relief. Off to his left, he heard the distinct beep of a communicator. A <em> spy </em>communicator. Sure, anyone could potentially mimic the sound if they stole one or if they had a knack for technology, but it brought Curt hope. That hope was emphasized when it was followed by the voice of none other than Owen Carvour. </p><p>Really, Curt could have been dreaming it. It would not be so impossible for his mind to play tricks on him, especially in his drugged-out, weakened state. However, it was also not so impossible that his partner really <em> was </em> at his side, waiting for him to wake, doing his due-diligence to not abandon him. Curt felt a bit guilty at that. Owen did not deserve the worry that was associated with waiting for someone to wake up in a hospital bed. Curt had only been through it once when he was fifteen and his aunt got into a terrible car accident, and it was not pretty. Definitely not a set of emotions Owen deserved to face. Then again, he did not deserve Owen’s rescue. He kept his breathing even as Owen’s voice grew louder and his guilt dug deeper. </p><p>“No change in him yet, sir.” </p><p>Owen sounded rough. His normal, perfected voice sounded more like coarse sandpaper, choked and riddled with bumps along the way as he spoke. Curt wondered when he last drank something. He hoped it had not been too long. Owen deserved better.</p><p>“I do not know, but the doctor assured he should come around soon.” Curt heard the distinct tapping of a foot. “Of course I believe them! You sent us here, didn’t you?”</p><p>That sounded promising. His health was in the hands of people supposedly MI6 did not trust. How lovely.</p><p>“I will give you a full report once he is conscious and I learn what went on. In the meantime, I expect details, background, whatever the hell you can find on the bastards who did this. Oh, and the coordinates of our new safe house. Good day.”</p><p>Another beep echoed through the room. This time, it was followed with a heavy sigh and a shoving of a nearby chair. Curt knew that familiar scuff anywhere. He was no stranger to kicking a few in his day. He kicked one the day his aunt did not return from the hospital. He did the day he found out his father had left when he was a baby and not simply passed like he had believed before. He did the day he first failed on a mission. Kicking a chair was a symbol of frustration, of lost hope.</p><p>Something about Owen losing hope stirred Curt.</p><p>He did not want him to feel that any longer, fake vision or not.</p><p>With a bit of effort, he finally opened his eyes. </p><p>The lights were still so bright. It was nice to see again, but he could have done without their blinding glare. The only thing keeping him from shutting them again was, of course, Owen. He was really there -- still in his suit, still handsome as ever, still just as much of a spy as he always was, with his brooding gaze and sharpness. He softly moaned at the sight as relief took over, unable to find the strength to restrain himself. It made Owen spin around, nearly knocking into his chair. His eyes widened.  </p><p>If Curt did not have a billion other things to worry about, he would have made more pomp and circumstance over the sheer relief on the other man’s face. He looked to suddenly forget the world around him when he saw Curt. His chest seemed to heave a little greater once he realized his own eyes were not deceived. Curt’s weakened mind did not know how to process that other than to grow a little emotional right back. He tossed Owen a gentle smile, barely noticeable. </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Owen snatched his kicked chair and pushed to the side of the bed. Sitting down, he looked Curt over, almost as if he was scared he missed an injury. It made Curt feel slightly warmer, having Owen’s eyes on him. A man could get used to that kind of attention. <em> Focus. </em> “Curt, how do you feel?”</p><p>“Heavy,” he said, earning a huff. “Really, I don’t think I can feel anything. I’m not paralyzed, am I?”</p><p>Shaking his head, Owen reached out to pat Curt. His hand retracted before he could do the deed, though, and it had Curt wondering if maybe he thought it might be a step too far. He would not have minded, truthfully. It might have set his skin aflame, and he might have let out another involuntary noise, but given how he could not feel much, it would have been nice to feel his touch. To be close to Owen. To get something other than guilty affection for once-</p><p>Maybe his pain meds really <em> were </em> strong.</p><p>“You’re quite mobile still, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Damn. And here, I thought I’d finally found a way to get rid of Cynthia.”</p><p>“Curt,” Owen warned, though Curt could see the ghost of a smile on his lips. At least he was not completely without old emotion there. He could work with that.</p><p>“How long have I been out?”</p><p>Owen looked at his watch, cocking his head to the side. “About seven hours.”</p><p>Seven hours. Oh, that was long. Longer than he would have liked to hear, anyway. The ball had started just after eight. There was no way Owen was not tired beyond his mind after waiting nearly all night. It was especially concerning if that had been the last time he had drank, too. Curt did not like the thought of that explaining the state of his voice. Unable to help himself, he asked, “How haven’t you fallen asleep yet? It has to be the middle of the night.”</p><p>“You have to be prepared to go without sleep on missions. And,” Owen added, thoughtful, “I wanted to ensure you were safe.”</p><p> Curt felt his chest tighten.</p><p>“Well, once I’m out of this, promise me you get some sleep. The last thing I need is you passing out when I’m down for the count.”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>“In the meantime, tell me what happened.” He shifted his weight slightly to sit up, wincing as pain met him. Owen reached out to help, and this time, he did not second guess and pull away. The two worked together until Curt’s back felt straight against his pillows. The pain no longer unbearable, he found the strength to continue. “How did you find me?”</p><p>A twinge of apprehension flashed across Owen. It was not so much fear as it was potential embarrassment and self-consciousness. It gave Curt a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Owen cast away his gaze.</p><p>“I...well, as you know, we parted with a certain directive. A request for me to...follow a lead.”</p><p>Curt gritted his teeth. </p><p><em> Ahh. </em> That explained it.</p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>“As you can imagine, discussions came to an abrupt end as we heard your feed.”</p><p>“Sorry to disrupt a good time, ol’ pal.”</p><p>Owen fell silent. He looked down at the ground, then back up at Curt, and something fluttered in his chest that he did not expect. That gaze was not the gaze of someone who looked disappointed. No, it was of someone who was sorry. Maybe it was the meds or the fact he had been out for seven hours, but Curt was not sure he was prepared to deal with that. He sure was grateful to see it, though. God, he was grateful. He would stay alive for seeing that look alone. But knowing it existed, knowing that he might be dumb for thinking his chances had been lost earlier that night, sent his mind racing more potent than any drug ever could. Clearing his throat, Owen rubbed his hands together. </p><p>“Don’t be.”</p><p>If Curt’s heart monitor beeped faster, no one commented on it.</p><p>“I thought I was too late, truth be told. I was searching every empty room when I heard your communication cut. I didn’t know what to think when I stumbled upon you facedown in a pool of your own blood.” </p><p><em> Yikes. </em> Curt did not like that image one bit. Owen seemed to pick up on his guilt, for he waved it away with his hand.</p><p>“It was not your fault, love,” he assured. “Though, I am pretty confused how you ended up in such a predicament. Last I saw you, you were still enjoying yourself at the bar.”</p><p>“I wish I had a decent reason,” Curt huffed. “I went in there to get some air and cool down before rejoining ‘the Hawire family from hell.’ All of a sudden, boom, random guy with a gun comes out of nowhere, ready to attack!”</p><p>“Did you catch his name?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, his arm made itself at home on my neck before we could exchange pleasantries.”</p><p>Owen frowned.</p><p>“He knows Maxim, though,” Curt said. “And Maxim knows of us, apparently.”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>Curt shrugged, gasping slightly as the movement pulled at something. “Maybe he had men planted throughout the ball? We weren’t super cautious at the bar. Maybe it was there. I don’t know. Whatever happened though, he figured us out and got pretty pissed when he found my communicator. I’m sure you saw I got a lovely gunshot wound as a souvenir.”</p><p>“They did surgery on it, by the way,” Owen said softly, avoiding Curt’s eyes. “No major organs were involved. Besides a blood transfusion, it was an easy patch job.” </p><p>That was comforting. “Glad I didn’t take too big of a dent out of the service’s budget. Speaking of, where are we? Does anyone know we’re here?”</p><p>Owen leaned back in his chair. He began to twiddle his thumbs -- a nervous habit Curt had not before seen of his. He wondered if it would continue if he had access to his crosswords. </p><p>“We’re in an MI6-controlled wing of a local hospital in Menton,” Owen said, gazing around their surroundings. “No one outside of this wing knows about its patients or circumstances. As for outside of the facility, the only people who are aware of <em> your </em> circumstances are MI6 and your team back in the states.”</p><p>“So Cynthia knows I’m alive?”</p><p>It was not so much that he cared for her <em> not </em> placing him on the ‘missing in action’ list, but more that he did not want to put his mother through the grief of hearing it. She already worried so much. The last thing he needed was to give her a heart attack for no reason because of some shoddy communication and the breaking of a device. Saving him the stress, Owen nodded.</p><p>“I spoke to her as soon as you were out of surgery.”</p><p>“Oh god, I’m sorry.”</p><p>The corner of Owen’s mouth turned up. “Whatever are you sorry for?”</p><p>“She isn’t...the <em> friendliest </em> woman, is all,” he offered, blushing lightly under Owen’s scrutiny. “I can take her heat ‘cause I’m used to it, but to anyone else, I imagine it’s short of a pleasant experience.”</p><p>“You might be surprised to know she was cordial, then.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“And sounded quite worried about you.”</p><p>“Excuse me, <em> what? </em>”</p><p>Huffing out an amused laugh, Owen carded his hand through his hair. “It’s a wild concept, I know, but people do care about you, Curt. Even your superiors.”</p><p>Curt did not even have time to process the implications of that sentence. He was still reeling from the idea that Cynthia, the woman who strapped bombs to him and sent armed gunmen after him to ‘keep him from being too comfortable,’ cared for him. That she cared for <em> Owen. </em> That her entire existence was not simply pissing off others and taking out bad guys so she could be the baddest of them all. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He probably looked ridiculous, but he did not know how else to act. Cynthia and care were simply not two words that fit together.</p><p>“She is sending your friend Barb here later this week to replace your communicator and to equip you with more safety measures,” Owen continued, bringing Curt back to reality. “We still need to have you checked out, but the doctor said you should be out of commission for about three weeks while you heal. It is the hope of our respective agencies that, by that time, we will have those measures in place and a plan contracted on how to move forward.”</p><p>“Whoa whoa whoa, wait. What about the drop?” Owen blinked back at him in confusion, but Curt pressed on. “The one you made out to get the information on? Won’t that take place before then? You said it was, what, a week and a half away? That’s not nearly enough time.”</p><p>“I’m fully capable of spying on my own, Curt.”</p><p>“Yeah, but shouldn’t you have backup? You know, in case things go wrong and you end up shot in a side room like me?”</p><p>“I’m not you,” Owen said bluntly. “I know when to cut my losses and run.”</p><p>Curt chuckled, trying to not let that wound his ego as much as it threatened to. He knew Owen was probably kidding, but something about the bite in his tone really had him questioning things. He was too hard to read. “You’re really going to kick me while I’m down, huh?”</p><p>Owen stood from his chair. Curt watched him turn from him, a hand reaching to soothe the back of his neck while he sighed and stared at the wall, and wondered what handful of thoughts he was thinking to turn so sour so fast. Was something wrong? Was that not a valid point for him to make? They were partners and being apart once had not gotten them anywhere good. Who was to say this next mission would be any better served alone? Regardless of how capable Owen felt, there was still that risk. Curt was not happy with the idea of letting him take that risk.</p><p>“Curt, I told you you can trust me, correct?”</p><p>The blood drained from Curt’s face. If Owen was really bringing this up now… “Yes.”</p><p>“I watched you fight for your life for the last few hours unsure if you would ever wake up. Yes, you just needed blood transfusions, but,” his face scrunched up, “I thought you might not make it. That...that is not something I wish to ever endure again. I don’t care if you hate me for it, or if I have to go to extraordinary means to keep you from interfering. I’m not letting you risk yourself again, especially when you’re hurt. I’m asking you to trust <em> me </em> that that’s the correct call, regardless of pitfalls.”</p><p>Curt shook his head. “I can’t let you just force yourself into danger. My shooting was unpredictable, but this? You’re asking me to turn a blind eye to my partner getting hurt on my watch! You can’t possibly expect me to be okay with you dying if the mere thought of the opposite traumatized you.”</p><p>Owen let out a growl, swiveling to face Curt with wild eyes. “Can’t you just trust me?”</p><p>“I trust you,” he assured, “but I’m not okaying this. You’re not even thinking about what I’d go through!”</p><p>“I <em> know </em> what you’d go through, <em> okay? </em>”</p><p>Silence. Curt and Owen stared at each other in electrified silence. That was not what Curt had expected to hear, and judging from the stunned look on his face, it might not have been what Owen had expected to say. He had lost a partner? That was not in his records. Curt would not imagine his agency pairing Owen with him if such a major loss had befallen him, especially when his main job was to protect him. He did not know what to say. He could only watch and wait, hoping for an explanation. As painful as it looked for Owen to be the one to break the silence, he eventually did. </p><p>“Two years ago. Ontario.” He grit his teeth. “It was supposed to be an easy warehouse mission. We had it all planned. We were complacent. Ten minutes in, I sent him out to take care of some guards I saw out back.”</p><p>“Owen-”</p><p>“I thought he would be fine,” he continued. “I thought he could handle himself. They told me it was not my fault, that I could have never imagined an ambush. But I sent him over there, Curt. I led him to his death. I cannot let that happen again. Not with you. Not when I can fully control the situation. ”</p><p>“I didn’t know-”</p><p>“I’m not going to give you a chance to carry that burden, and I’m not letting my past mistakes haunt me again. So,” Owen said, matter-of-factly, “I’m taking that part on my own. That is my decision. Case closed. Now you know.”</p><p>“That was your secret, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Owen looked to mentally stumble back. “What?”</p><p>“In the beginning,” Curt explained, “we both had something we wouldn’t tell each other. That was your ‘something,’ wasn’t it?”</p><p>There was an intense pause before Owen turned back around and crossed his arms. “S-Sure, Curt. If that’s what you want to focus on after all of that, sure.”</p><p>“Owen, c’mon, I’m just trying to understand you,” Curt pleaded. “You dropped one hell of a bombshell on me there and I’m trying to make sense of it. Sorry if that and the fact this was nowhere on your records leads me to think about the one thing you refused to tell me.”</p><p>“They expunged it from my record the day after it happened.”</p><p>Curt sighed. “Why?”</p><p>“They did not want it to ruin my career before it began. And,” he added, “it was too personal a case. I would be compromised even if he had survived.”</p><p>“Wha-”</p><p>“Just drop it, Curt!” </p><p>Curt blinked in shock as Owen’s chest heaved. He could not see his face, but he pictured something positively evil with the way that outburst rang through the room. For a while, the beeping of his monitors was all filling the horrible silence experienced between them. That and Owen’s frustrated breaths echoed and forced Curt’s mind to work double time. It forced him to frantically grapple in silence with the information that his last partner’s death had been ‘too personal’ to include and possibly not his big secret. That held too many thoughts. Too many implications. Too many assumptions that Curt’s still-medicated mind could not possibly sort through with an angry Owen at his feet and a freshly mending wound in his side. </p><p>He wanted to scream. He wanted to break the silence and force Owen to fess up. But, he knew better than to pry when Owen was upset. That had not worked well for him in the past. The best thing he could do was cut his losses and save that information for another day. Sure, he would still fight Owen tooth-and-nail for him not to go on the mission alone, and he would be <em> certain </em> to not let those comments flutter away into nothingness when they possibly could tell him all he wanted to know and <em> more </em>, but that could wait. It could happen not when they were in a hospital room, fresh off of a traumatic experience. It could wait for when they were settled into their new safe house and coming off of a good night’s sleep. </p><p>So, clearing his throat, Curt said the only thing he could think of that would not cause a fight. </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>When no response came, he uttered it again. Owen took a moment, but he soon swiveled back around to meet Curt’s eyes. Curt had no time before his response to internalize how his brown ones were shining and watery across from him.</p><p>“You’re thanking me? Why?”</p><p>“You did save me,” Curt offered, trying to maintain Owen’s fierce eye contact through his nerves. “I never thanked you. But also...you didn’t have to tell me all of that. A-And, as much as I’m unhappy about it, you’re trying to protect me, too. You’re trying to be someone I can trust, like you said you would. I think...I think that deserves a thank you. So, thank you.”</p><p>Owen’s eyes grew shinier. His crossed arms looked more to wrap around himself than themselves, and those heaving breaths of his seemed shakier than before. He looked, frankly, like he could cry. However, Curt watched him fight it back. He watched him grit his teeth, force them back, and respond to Curt not with words, but with a pat on the leg. Such small comfort held little weight to onlookers, but it meant everything to Curt. It meant an acknowledgement that he was trying. That he was there for him. That maybe, just maybe, Owen could trust Curt right back through all this mess. </p><p>Swallowing back his emotion, Owen walked toward the door to Curt’s hospital room. He paused as he turned the handle, dropping his head down. </p><p>“I’m gonna…I’m gonna go get the doctor.”</p><p>Anxiety in his stomach, Curt nodded.  “Okay.”</p><p>
  <em> Okay. This will all be okay. </em>
</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Closer to the Breaking Point</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In the week after Curt's stint in the hospital, there's something about Owen that Curt cannot let go of. Emotions are shared. A friend arrives, unknowingly stressing those emotions more.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HELLO ALL I promise I am alive. The past two weeks have been a lot for me, both personally and in general, and writer's block is evil, so I apologize for taking so long to update. I hope you all are not too mad at me for it. This chapter was kind of hard for me to write, as it is before some exciting stuff and more of a set up, BUT I do hope you enjoy. I'm interested to see if any of y'all pick up on what's coming. ;) </p><p>Also, PLEASE leave me comments! I want to make sure you're still enjoying what's going on and love hearing your theories on aspects throughout the way. It really does motivate me, especially during writer's block moments. I appreciate them so much, as in depth or short and silly as they can be &lt;3</p><p>LASTLY: I have a rough idea of how much longer this story is going to continue now! I'm thinking we'll hit about 20 chapters, but that may fluctuate, so right now I'm still leaving that question mark. It'll be changed when we get closer to everything. I plan on continuing things afterward though in a bit of a sequel if y'all still will have me then, so don't worry, I won't go anywhere :) </p><p>Now, after all of that, ENJOY THE CHAPTER!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Curt had a lot of time to think about Owen as he began to heal.</p><p>He was such a compelling, complicated woven web of a man compared to the suave, well-put-together picture handed to him by MI6 and Cynthia. First impressions rarely gave the full scope of a man, but with Owen, each day was a new impression. Each day had Curt guessing what version he would find. This only increased after his shooting. </p><p>The first day home, Owen began with a cold, detached persona. He helped Curt along into their new safe house with scarce a word, save for assurances he was not hurting him sprinkled here and there when they entered Curt’s new room. It was blue like his one back home, fit with a Queen bed, a large dresser, and a TV. He wanted to comment on that, but Owen did not give him the chance. He was gone before Curt could open his mouth. His ghost-like figure only returned twice more that night, once when Curt needed dinner and again when he needed the restroom before bed. Both times were silent. </p><p>The next morning, however, brought a new side of Owen. Curt woke to pancakes in bed. A fresh glass of orange juice rested on his side table, and Owen was not far away. He sat with Curt, nibbling on his own stack at the end of the bed so he, quote, “could eat without worry.” Of course, eating with Owen initially brought Curt more worry than comfort, but things soon mellowed out. They watched TV in amicable silence. Owen interjected to ask how his cooking was, and when Curt joked about it being better than the slop the A.S.S. usually gave him, he actually smiled. This behavior, surprisingly, carried throughout the day. It even seeped into Owen having to check Curt’s bandages. It may have been the residual meds the doctors had Curt on playing mind games with him, but he could have sworn Owen smiled throughout the task. Whatever the case, Curt went to bed with warm feelings from this Owen. </p><p>Warm feelings were replaced with concern on day three. He should have known something was off the moment Owen did not appear in his room first thing like usual, but seeing him finally appear with visible tear stains clued him in in an instant. He opened his mouth to ask but was stopped with a raised hand and a firm headshake ‘no.’ Owen made eggs that morning. They were dry. Curt was left to watch shows alone. When Owen returned at night to check his bandage and help Curt to the restroom, his eyes purposefully avoided Curt’s. Not even a ‘goodnight’ slipped past his sullen mood. </p><p>And day four was much of the same. There was such a back-and-forth nature to Owen’s behavior, to his already complicated self, that it was beginning to give Curt whiplash. It made him dread seeing what form of Owen he would find when he woke up. It made him regret how he had pushed Owen in the hospital room, as if this were all his fault. Perhaps it was on some level. He did not know. He just wanted Owen back to some semblance of normal. </p><p>Come day five, Curt gave Owen no chance to choose a mood to greet him with. Against the protest of his stitches and the horrible residual ache below them, Curt decided he would be the one getting himself out of bed that day. He put on new clothes and combed his hair all on his own with minimal issue, and if it were not for subtle winces and moans when his body dared take things a step too far, one could almost think nothing was wrong with him. He felt a sense of pride at that. That pride carried him out into the living room with his head held high and wind in his sails. </p><p>It stayed until he caught sight of Owen, and then it rushed away all at once upon the sight of him crying.</p><p>He was at the kitchen table, dressed in a robe and loose pajama bottoms. That was nothing different. He had almost always worn a robe when seeing Curt that week. This one was navy. The day before’s was brown. </p><p>In fact, nothing was different about Owen aside from his emotions. So raw and vulnerable, Curt had not thought him capable of such a display. Sure, he had been on the verge of tears before, but this? Sobbing into his hands so hard his body shook? It stood in such sharp contrast from the man he knew. He was scared to know what possibly brought him to that point. </p><p>Tentative, Curt took a few steps toward the kitchen. He was careful not let his slippers make a sound against the tile, not wanting to disturb Owen’s moment. This care was short-lived however, as one particularly painful choked sob had Curt’s mind acting on autopilot in seconds. Quiet footsteps turned into full strides in Owen’s direction. Apprehension was shoved aside for something else, something deeper. </p><p>Owen’s sobs startled to a halt. </p><p>“Curt?” His voice was strangled and, frankly, hard to hear without grimacing. Curt stopped about three feet away from him, not wishing to come closer and induce something like fear into the mix. “W-What are you doing out of bed? Are you mental?”</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>Owen swiped at his face, desperate to clear tears Curt could not unsee. “This doesn’t concern you.”</p><p>“Uh, my partner who has rarely shown emotion is currently crying his eyes out at the dining room table. I think that concerns me.” Owen tried to shoot him a glare, but its usual venom fell flat. “What’s going on?”</p><p>“You cannot help, Curt. D-Drop it and go lay down. You shouldn’t be standing, you’ll pop stitches.”</p><p>“No offense Owen,” Curt rested his weight on the chair opposite him, brushing off the palpable relief it brought to his stitches, “but fuck that. You’ve spent all week making sure I’m okay. I’m not leaving until I know you are, too. So spill.”</p><p>Letting out a shaky breath, Owen mentally warred with himself. His eyebrows scrunched together, his teeth clenched. He looked like he was either two seconds from screaming or two seconds from breaking down crying again, and Curt was not sure which was more plausible given his current state. He just wanted him to not look so tormented. To let something out. Anything.</p><p>“I’m a bloody idiot.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’m a bloody idiot,” he reiterated, voice cracking. “I...I thought that my resolve would be better, but no. No, I couldn’t be so lucky.”</p><p>Curt frowned. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“I’m talking...I’m talking about my partner, Curt.”</p><p>Once again, Owen Carvour took the wind out of Curt’s sails. “I thought you didn’t want to bring him up again.”</p><p>“Well, you did not exactly give me much of a choice pestering me like this, did you?” Curt fell silent. Owen sighed and rubbed at his face. “Sorry. I believe I’m what some call ‘irritable’ at the moment. It’s just...it’s asinine and I shouldn’t be thinking about it. Hell, I did not want to bring it back up myself! But, my mind...my mind couldn’t help itself, now could it? I just had to think of him again.”</p><p>“It’s okay to think about your lost partner, Owen.”</p><p>“Not when you’re aiding your current one,” he snapped, anger seeping into those eyes of his. “Not when you’re dressing a wound and remember doing that for him, or when you’re cooking breakfast and realize you’re making his usual order, or when you’re helping you walk and remember the jokes he made when I did it for him. God, I even thought about him when we watched cartoons! Cartoons! My fucking mind could not stop for two seconds to let me enjoy a show without thinking about him and his love for cartoons. And now you saw the aftermath. It’s infuriating.”</p><p>“It’s human,” Curt offered, voice soft. He had never heard Owen speak about someone like that. He did not think he was capable of it, like he had thought with many things before. But, the way he did it, the way the sincerity in his voice seeped into his expression as he kept fixed on the table, conveyed to Curt that it was not done out of sheer partner-like care. There was something more there. Something that gave Curt a twinge of jealousy he loathed feeling and a looming sense of sorrow for Owen. </p><p>It sounded like love. </p><p>But, it couldn’t be. </p><p>
  <em> Could it? </em>
</p><p>“It’s weak,” Owen spoke after a moment, wiping at his face again. “I did not go through months of training or years of <em> acting </em> to be unable to handle my emotions like this. It’s going to get me killed if I’m not careful, and if it leads to killing you-”</p><p>“You won’t.”</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Owen scoffed, beside himself. “You can’t know that! I very well could kill you right now. I-I have my gun.”</p><p>Curt shook his head. “I know. But I trust you wouldn’t.” </p><p>Silence filled the room.</p><p>“Look, I don’t know much about...<em>him</em>,” Curt said softly, risking scaring Owen away by inching closer to where he sat, “but I can tell you cared about him. It’s <em> okay </em> to care. Yeah, we’re spies, and yeah, we’re ‘property of the government’ and all that fun stuff, but fuck, Owen. We’re humans, too. We’re allowed to grieve and to show emotion.”</p><p>“Curt.”</p><p>“And if you need to show emotion, I’m not going to judge you.” He waited for Owen to rejoin his gaze before continuing, praying his face was as sincere as he sounded. He needed Owen to fully take in what he was saying, because given the way his heart was pounding and his skin was growing clammy, he did not have the confidence he could say this again. “You can trust that, no matter the cause. The last thing I think either of us need right now is to hide stuff like that.”</p><p>“You can’t mean that,” Owen said, voice barely audible. Holding firm, Curt shook his head. </p><p>“Do you see anyone with a gun to my head? I have no reason not to.”</p><p>“Curt, I-”</p><p>Time rushed to a halt as the doorbell to their safe house rang through the air. Whatever was going to be spoken was quickly forgotten, replaced with a fear that both men knew well. Curt, still injured, had little way to react to this fear other than to tense up and stare at the door. Owen, on the other hand, had every means to react. Curt watched him pull out his gun and get up from his chair in a jumble of emotions. Each step he took toward the door made his fear grow stronger. He almost called out for Owen to stop when he reached the handle. For a moment, the world was still. And then, Owen made his move.</p><p>Curt could not describe the relief he felt when a mop of blonde hair came into view.</p><p>“Barb!”</p><p>Looking over his shoulder, Owen let out the breath he was holding. His gun fell to rest at his side. “This is Barb?”</p><p>“Yes sir, in the flesh!” Suddenly noting the gun in Owen’s hand, Barb’s eyes widened. She raised her hands in innocence, looking downright comical compared to Owen’s brooding, emotional figure at the door. If Curt were not just off the cusp of an emotional roller coaster, he might have laughed. “Jeepers, please don’t shoot me! I-I can prove it if you give me one second to go through my bag-”</p><p>“That won’t be necessary. C’mon in,” Curt beckoned, motioning for Owen to do something other than stare at him. It took him a few seconds, but soon Owen was letting Barb scurry in past him, dazed but compliant. That dazed glare watched Barb in her struggle to compose herself as she headed over to Curt, smoothing out her skirt, fixing her hair, checking for any misplaced pink lipstick. Perhaps he thought her somewhat of a comical character as well. Perhaps he did not know what to make of her yet, his mind still reeling from the previous conversation. All Curt knew was that, when she finally arrived at his side and batted her eyes like she always did, something in Owen changed. He looked, dare Curt think it, positively <em> possessive</em>. </p><p>Thoughts of their previous conversation flooded Curt’s mind, and had Owen not taken that moment to re-secure his gun’s safety, startling Barb at the click, he might have found himself melting at the potential meanings of such a look. Instead, he ended up shooting a glare his way. Owen looked past it.  </p><p>“Apologies for the scare there, Barb. We weren’t exactly expecting visitors.”</p><p>“Well, normally I would message you on your communicator that I was on my way, but it’s a little hard to do that when it’s busted to pieces,” she chided, poking at him with her finger. Setting her bag in her lap, she sighed. “Really Curtis, you gave us such a scare. What did you think you were doing, singling yourself out at a major event like that? I thought I was going to have to come rescue you myself!”</p><p>“Believe me,” he huffed. “I won’t do it again.”</p><p>Even if he had any thoughts of doing it again, he had a pretty strong feeling Owen would shoot him dead before he could go through with it. The thought brought a small smile to his face.</p><p>“Well, you better not, or Cynthia’s going to have your head on a platter,” she mused. “She’s an ocean away, but don’t doubt she won’t travel to make it happen. You know how she is.”</p><p>“Noted.”</p><p>“Lucky for you, I’ve made you a new bulletproof communicator so we never have to be in this predicament again. Would you like me to show you?”</p><p>“Well-”</p><p>“That sounds like a marvelous idea.” </p><p>Owen’s voice startled Curt from across the room. He had almost forgotten he was still observing them, lurking in the room like a shadow. He did not mind it, though. Just was not expecting it to continue. The way Owen looked when Curt turned to see him gave Curt the impression he had not expected it either. Clasping his hands together, the other agent made a beeline for the stairs to his room. Curt brows furrowed. </p><p>“Where are you going?” </p><p>“I need to prepare for the drop.” It was an obvious excuse, spoken so flippantly Curt might not have believed there was a drop had he not known otherwise. “You two speak and I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Just give me a knock, yeah?”</p><p>“Hey Owe?”</p><p>He paused, but did not dare turn around.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“We’ll talk later, okay?”</p><p>Much like at the hospital, Owen’s head fell in the silence between them. This time though, he did not use the action as a gateway to change the subject. In fact, barely loud enough to reach the duo at the table, he spoke a gentle ‘okay’ into existence. That ‘okay’ might have been the best thing Curt had heard all week. It certainly filled his heart like it was, at least. It signaled a continuation of whatever they had been on the brink of discussing, and that was something intriguing to Curt. He could not help but look after him fondly with that in mind, even as Owen rushed off as if sharing his space was excruciating. There was just so much hope there. </p><p>“Is he always like that?”</p><p>Blinking, Curt returned to reality. “Huh?”</p><p>“Agent Carvour,” she gestured, pointing to where the very agent had been with a brow raised. “Is he always so...skittish? I thought he was the best in MI6.”</p><p>“He is, I promise you. We’ve just had a bit of a...rough week, is all.”</p><p>Rough was an understatement, but Barb did not need to know the emotional details.</p><p>“Hmph, well, I hope he gets over it soon. That’ll be no way to act around a deadly weapons drop.”</p><p>Though crudely delivered by Barb, Curt agreed. “You, uh, said you had new equipment for me, Barb?”</p><p>Gasping, Barb dove right into her bag. Within moments, she extracted a shiny, metal device. Curt was quick to examine it closer. While it looked a lot like his old communicator, he was not blind to the fact it looked far more tech-filled than that device. It had a screen, first of all, and was smaller. It also was heavier, though not by much -- just enough for him to notice. He blinked at it in wonder as Barb giggled in glee.</p><p>“It’s our most technological personal device yet,” she gushed. “We were able to implement a panel of bulletproof glass over the top of a screen, not that unlike the one you would find on your average television. With specific frequencies and devices on our part, we are going to be able to communicate oodles of information. We might even get the ability for pictures, Curt! Pictures! Wouldn’t that be wonderful? No more sitting there, having us listen in on your missions to track you down. We can take a snapshot of where you are and find you that way! It’s going to revolutionize your job!”</p><p>“That’s really awesome, Barb,” he said, truly meaning it. He did not even think such a thing was possible, and to have it in his hands ready to use was incredible. He barely felt worthy. Barb deserved a raise. “Did you bring me anything else?”</p><p>“I did actually, but it’s in the car. Well, Cynthia did, anyway. She got you a bulletproof vest.” Curt paled. He did not want to think about what level of pissed she had to be in order to <em> buy </em> him something. “She told me, quote, ‘Maybe that will keep him from having to do all of the paperwork I don’t want to do.’”</p><p>“How lovely of her. Is it embroidered perhaps? Decorated with little notes of her appreciation and increasing hopes for my demise?”</p><p>Barb rolled her eyes at him. She set her bag on the ground, rummaging around in it for some chapstick. “Very funny, Curtis. You know she’d <em> actually </em> kill you if she heard you say that, right? She did you a favor giving you that vest.”</p><p>“Yeah well, she would have done me more of a favor telling me our <em> clients </em> were so annoying,” he sighed. Leaning back in the chair, he ran his hands through his hair. “Thank goodness I have Owen.”</p><p>“Do you like working with him? Professionally?”</p><p>Giving a shrug, Curt fondly looked over at the stairs. “He’s alright. Pain in the ass sometimes, but...he’s kept this arrangement amusing.”</p><p>“That doesn’t sound amusing, Curt. That actually sounds frustrating.”</p><p>Curt smiled. “Funny how that works, huh?”</p><p>Barb appeared to find it anything but funny, but Curt could not be bothered to change his rhetoric. Instead, he braced himself against the table and pushed himself to stand. His stitches tugged and caused him to wince, much to her horror, but he pushed through it and began a slow journey to the couch. After another painful move, he was laid out on the cushions. Barb, hovering nearby in worry, took to the adjacent chair. </p><p>“He really isn’t as bad as I make him sound,” Curt mused, now staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, he’s stubborn and impossible to understand at times, and not just because of the accent,” he added, sensing the question on Barb’s lips, “but he’s also really intelligent and instinctual. He knows how to go about things in a way I don’t even consider and does it really well. It’s…well, it’s admirable. I enjoy it.”</p><p>“He hardly seemed admirable when I first walked in.”</p><p>“Because you saw him at a low,” he replied, perhaps a bit quicker than he intended. “When he’s out in the field on a mission, he’s better. He’s...refined. When I first met him, you should have seen how confident he was. I felt scared to mess up and have him shoot me for being a dumbass like Cynthia would.”</p><p>Barb raised a brow. “Really?”</p><p>Nodding, Curt rested a hand over his wound. “I wouldn’t have put it past him to do worse than this ol’ thing right here, if I’m being honest. But we all have our demons, and I think he’s working through some right now. One day, I think he might be able to get past them, and I hope you get the chance to see him like that. How <em> I </em>see him.”</p><p>“You sound like you’ve already befriended him.”</p><p>Curt cast another glance up the stairs. “I mean, I’m getting there. I’d like to be there, at least.”</p><p>“I can’t think of a reason why someone wouldn’t want to befriend you, Curt.”</p><p>“Thanks Barb.” He grinned. </p><p>“You two should talk,” she offered, inching forward in her seat as she caught his grin. “You know, get to know him. I know I grow closer to you every time we speak. Perhaps a little conversation and time might smooth things over. You know, grease the wheels for something <em> more. </em>”</p><p>More. Curt liked the idea of more. He liked the idea of clearing things up and finally getting on a similar page with Owen. And if Barb felt like it might happen, well...that gave him the confidence to do it. Beaming like a fool, he tried to sit up a bit and snapped his fingers, getting her attention from whatever daydream she was living in. She startled but was quick to return to the edge of her seat.</p><p>“That’s it. Barb, can you go to the store for me?”</p><p>Her face fell, but only briefly. “Sure Curt, what for?”</p><p>“I need you to get me a bottle of Merlot. The best one you can find,” he stressed. “Some fruit maybe, too. Whatever you think would pair well, I don’t care.”</p><p>“But Curt, you can’t drink on painkillers.”</p><p>“Then buy Merlot and some type of sparkling cider,” he said with another snap. Eyes fixed on the stairs, he gestured with his hand over to the door. “I have money in my wallet by the door. Take whatever you need.”</p><p>“But-”</p><p>“Thank you <em> so </em> much, Barb. You’re really a godsend.”</p><p>Barb did not feel like much of a godsend in that moment, but Curt did not see that. As she headed over to his wallet and out the door, all he saw was the promise of the rest of the night to come. He saw a possible conversation that might not end in so much conflict, as well as a possible resolution before Owen had to trek into the unknown of the mission. It gave him a rush. It made him suddenly eager to run up those stairs he was so fixated on, regardless of what rested at the top. </p><p>Even if Owen’s old partner and both of their fears were brought up, something about the idea of Merlot and a private conversation made Curt confident they could get through it. </p><p>Resting his head back on the arm of the couch, Curt let his eyes flutter shut. </p><p>For the first time all week, he truly rested.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>PS: I love Barb &amp; will give her happiness soon don't worry xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Merlot Is The Key To Your Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt's plan to speak to Owen finally comes together, with mixed results.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HELLO everyone! I wanted to start by saying sorry once more for the wait. Besides an awful case of writer's block and my grad school fighting me every which way for attention, I hit a bit of a mental health low and just couldn't get myself to write. I'm hoping that doesn't happen again for next chapter, and I thank you for your patience xx</p><p>ANYWAY there is a ~lot~ that is discussed in this chapter (it's almost 6K of it lol), and a lot that probably will be used later for ~drama~ purposes, so pay close attention ;) Also, we love pining here, but if you're one of the ones like me who just want these two idiots to be together already...let's just say your prayers are heard and will have fun developments soon. Wink wink, nudge nudge, all that jazz. I promise it'll all be worth the wait. Please let me know what you think of this one in the comments! Enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Curtis, I’m back!”</p><p>Well, that was strange.</p><p>Curt had no idea how long he had been out. It felt as if he only had slept for an hour or so, but there was no doubt it actually had been longer. Pink and orange hues bordered Barb's silhouette at the door as she entered. He knew for certain it had been nowhere near sunset when she left to get his groceries. Hell, it had hardly reached noon! Lots of time had passed, and he was unsure why.</p><p>Why had it taken her so long to return? Why had she let him pass out for so long unchecked? Sure, he had not had a restful night sleep since the injury, and sure, he needed as much as he could get. But, his list had been small, and she was quick to finish tasks. She should have been back to wake him up hours ago. </p><p>These questions of 'why' could only exist as short-lived in Curt's mind, as they were soon trumped by the loud clinking of said groceries on the dining room table. He perked up at the noise, craning his neck to get a better look. Barb was wringing out her arms, happy to no longer have such a burden to bear and a moment to stretch. When she noticed him, she smiled.</p><p>"Welcome back to the land of the living!"</p><p>Curt fondly rolled his eyes. "Hi Barb. Find everything I asked for?"</p><p>“Everything and more,” she proclaimed, trotting over and handing him a bottle of Merlot. ‘<em>Aged to perfection!’ </em> it declared on its golden wrappings. That was what he liked to hear. Owen only deserved perfection. “I had to go to a few places, <em> but </em> I was assured this was the best one can find around here. I hope it’s delicious!”</p><p>“Barb, you are <em> amazing</em>.”</p><p>Barb blushed something fierce. Curt did not notice it though, too busy ogling the box of chocolate-covered pretzels she placed on the table. Snapping out of her trance and noticing his interest, she snatched the treats and brought them over to Curt's side for him to examine. To his utter delight, she then opened it and motioned for him to try one. What a treat! It might as well have been Christmas. He was happy to take her offer without hesitation. To no one’s surprise besides maybe Barb’s, the noise he made upon tasting the sweet chocolate sounded, dare he say it, explicit. Barb’s blush deepened.</p><p>"You like them, huh?"</p><p>Nodding, Curt reached for another. "These are incredible, Barb. Seriously. I could eat them all day."</p><p>Before Curt could react, Barb snatched the box away right from under him -- and just when he was enjoying himself. He couldn’t believe it, balking back at her. </p><p>"Nuh-uh, you're not going to do anything of the sort, mister. These are for you to enjoy with your cider. I'm not letting you spoil it or give yourself a tummy ache."</p><p>“Oh c’mon, you can’t dangle them in my face like that and not allow me to have some! I promise I’ll be good!”</p><p>Despite the sincerity in his promise, Barb shook her head. "Sorry, not happening, Curtis. I will let you have some of the grapes I bought if you’re hungry, though. Those won’t spoil your appetite.”</p><p>Curt threw himself backward on the couch. “Forget it. I’ll wait.”</p><p>Barb giggled. </p><p>“You’ll thank me later.”</p><p>"Speaking of later. Owen and I were supposed to have that talk you suggested hours ago. Have you seen him, Barb?"</p><p>Silence rang out from the kitchen where Barb put away groceries. Curt almost asked her again, thinking she had not heard him among the rustling of the bags. He could not comprehend why that question would give her any pause. But, after a few more quiet beats, her voice gave its reply. </p><p>"I haven't, Curt. I've been away."</p><p>He sighed. He had hoped for something more concrete, something that told him Owen was not still crying his eyes out in private. Then again, if Barb really had been out all day, he could not hold it against her for not knowing anything. </p><p>"I hope he shows his face soon. He likes to do this thing where he hides after we speak," he said, laughing a bit to himself at the end. "I wouldn't want him to see me sleeping the day away and think he's out of the woods."</p><p>"I doubt he thinks that, Curt."</p><p>"I wish I knew that for sure. I never know what he thinks."</p><p>"You're going to worry yourself silly if you only wonder about what he thinks," Barb chided. "Your world does not need to revolve around him, you know. It can revolve around you sometimes." She paused, staring at the bottle of cider she bought. "Or others."</p><p>Curt leaned back into his seat. "I can't help it, unfortunately. He's my partner. Whatever worries him worries me. His hiding is directly my problem, whether I like it or not."</p><p>Barb scoffed. </p><p>Curt had never heard Barb scoff -- at least, not at something he said about another. She even defended Cynthia at times, to his utter dismay. For her to scoff at someone had to mean something bad. Yet, Curt did not see anything bad with Owen. Annoying crush aside, Curt did not think Owen was anything but a good person whom life dealt a frustrating hand. He frowned and peered over at Barb. </p><p>"What?"</p><p>Shutting the fridge, she looked over and let out a heavy sigh. "It's nothing, Curt. Drop it."</p><p>"Hey, no it's not. C'mere, join me on the couch."</p><p>She did not look too keen to do so, but eventually, Barb complied. She took her place at his side without meeting his gaze, making Curt's frown deeper. He reached for her hand in an attempt to rouse some sort of reaction. To his shock, it did nothing.</p><p>"Is everything alright?"</p><p>"It's just," she sighed, "I came here to see you, Curt. I know I'm being selfish here acting like this, but I want to talk about you when I'm here. You're the closest person I have in this business, and I want to talk with you about you. Not Owen or whatever he has going on in his life."</p><p>Curt felt a pang of guilt. Though he did not regret speaking with Barb about Owen, he could see what she meant. He had spoken a lot about him. Even topics about her found their way into Owen territory. That was not fair in the slightest. Squeezing her hand, he gave her an apologetic smile.</p><p>"I'm sorry. I guess I'm still trying to figure out this whole partner-spy balance."</p><p>Barb finally looked up. "It's okay. I guess I'm trying to figure out how to share you myself."</p><p>"You know, Owen and I may grow closer, but he won't ever replace you, if that's what you're worried about."</p><p>Owen fit a very specific piece of the puzzle that was Curt's life. Barb's friendship was a different piece. Based off of her actions, Curt figured she most likely wished it to be the same, but Curt simply was not the right guy. He could only be the best friend to her possible and hope that was enough. Judging from the way her eyes lit up at his words, he figured he was on a good path to do so.</p><p>"I'm glad to hear that, Curt." It was her turn to squeeze his hand. The contact made Curt feel warm and comforted. Crisis averted. He beamed back at her, glad to feel in her favor once more. </p><p>"So," he started, "what's going on in the life of Barb Larvenor? Spare me no detail."</p><p>"Well-"</p><p>Cutting her words short before they began, a noise came from the stairs. Curt strayed from Barb to find Owen standing there. Though fresh-shaven and free of hair gel, he looked rather rough. Bags rested below his eyes, and no amount of self care could hide the anxiety still coursing through his body. It tugged at Curt's heart. His very essence called for comfort, and Curt wanted nothing more than to forget about Barb and rush to hug him.</p><p>However, he had just promised Barb to do the exact opposite. He had sworn she would have time to speak, time to exist at the forefront of Agent Curt Mega's mind, sans Owen Carvour. To go back on it so fast would be a cruel crime.</p><p>Right as he went to deny himself Owen for her sake, though, Barb moved to get up. He watched from a point of confusion as she crossed the room to her purse, grabbing it without a word. It was an alerting sight. He grew so troubled that he nearly forgot his stitches in an attempt to reach out for her. Thankfully, she noticed his movement before he had to try again and stopped in place. Her eyes flickered between his and Owen, finally resting on him.</p><p>"I should go," she said gently, offering a small smile. "Cynthia needs to know you have everything you need, and besides, I need to check that no new information about the case has come in.</p><p>“Are you sure? I can make time for you.”</p><p>Nodding, Barb ruffled Curt's hair. “Affirmative. Look, if you two need anything, I’ll be a phone call and a short drive away. Oh and Curt, I’ll also radio sometime tomorrow to make sure your communicator is in working condition. Toodles, you two.”</p><p>And with that, she was gone. </p><p>Turning to Owen, Curt swallowed hard.</p><p>"Hi."</p><p>"Hi."</p><p>"I'm um...I'm going to look for a snack."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>Owen ventured over to the kitchen. Silence took over, leaving Curt awkward on the couch. In the middle of such silence, Curt figured he should do something productive. At least, he should not sit there like a bump on a log. So, he did the one thing he could think of in such hasty time. </p><p>He admired Owen.</p><p>Owen no longer wore his robe from earlier. It was exchanged for a long-sleeve navy button-up shirt and grey slacks. Curt wondered why he felt the need to become formal all of a sudden in the confines of their safe house. It was not as if he was going anywhere any time soon. For what it was worth though, it looked quite dashing on him. </p><p>He also noticed that hair of his. Something about it without gel made Curt want to run his hands through it all that more. He wanted to forget their cover for a moment and drag Owen outside to see how the setting sun made it shine. It gave him the ruggedly handsome look one would expect of a spy. Curt tried his best not to swoon, but <em> man </em> was it hard not to.</p><p>If only Owen was a bit less standoffish. If only they could get through to each other and maybe find some common ground without having a fight. If only they spoke to each other like humans instead of agents, trying to know each other and embrace vulnerability. Maybe then, they could stop this game. Maybe then, Curt could finally find a use for all those pesky feelings. Maybe then, Curt could do more than stare when Owen looked this way. </p><p>A man could dream, couldn’t he?</p><p>"Ugh, he's doing it again."</p><p>Curt coughed. Had he heard that correctly? Had Owen just commented about him under his breath, fully knowing he was there? He could not believe it. Even if it was real and he had that can of worms to dive into, he could not believe it. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m doing <em>what?</em>”</p><p>On a human level, there was a sense of comfort in Owen wincing right then. It showed Curt that yes, he too was capable of mistakes. He also could put his foot in his mouth from time to time. On a partner level, though, it was enough to send him into high alert. His stomach tensed, dreading Owen's next words the way he used to dread his mother finding out he failed an exam. </p><p>“Staring. It’s...distracting. I’ve noticed you doing it a lot since the accident.” </p><p>Curt plastered on a fake smile. He was trying to kill him, showing honesty in a time like this. How wonderful. “I had no idea.”</p><p>It was a complete and utter lie, but Owen did not need to know that. </p><p>“B-Barb bought us stuff.”</p><p>The way Owen blinked back at Curt, one would have thought the sentence had given him whiplash. Curt supposed it did, on some level. They had come so close to crossing the line again. To uncross it by bringing up Barb of all people could not have done anything good for the ol' heart rate. However, Owen did not say a word to stop it. In fact, he entertained it. </p><p>Reaching into the fridge, he pulled out the piece-de-resistance: his Merlot. The gold packaging shined in the refrigerator light, and Curt was momentarily mesmerized by the way it ricocheted into Owen's hair. He was quick to shift his focus on Owen himself, though. </p><p>"She bought this?"</p><p>Curt gave a half-hearted laugh and sat up more. “It's a thank you gift for taking such good care of me.”</p><p>Another fat lie. This one did not go unrecognized by Owen, though. He in fact quirked his brow at it and walked over to the kitchen’s edge with the bottle in question raised for Curt to see. There was something dangerous in his eyes, and Curt felt his skin burn up at it.</p><p>“That is very lovely of her, and I will be sure to thank her at a later time,” he said, taking another glance at the label. “But I am quite perplexed at how she managed to choose my favorite wine on her first go-around.”</p><p>Fuck. He had not considered that. His mind scrambled for an excuse.</p><p>“It’s uh...it’s one of her superpowers. Like I’ve told you, she’s very smart.”</p><p>An excuse. It never clarified it had to be a good one.  </p><p>Unfortunately, this meant that Owen, as a result, was not convinced. Being the stoic figure that he was, though, he did not look to dwell on it long. Instead, he dove back into the fridge. Curt's mind, left unoccupied and not wishing to travel back down the road of observance, acted on its own. Without his approval, it uttered the first damning idea on his mind. </p><p>“What about you come sit with me and we drink it together? I think she bought some fruit. We could share that and get some talking out of the way.”</p><p>Owen paused. </p><p>“As great of a plan as that is love, you cannot drink.”</p><p>Cheeks growing red, Curt let out a little ‘oh.’ </p><p>It made the corner of Owen’s mouth turn up.</p><p>It was not until Curt took his own pause to actually let himself breathe that he remembered Barb's cider. Desperate to fix his crumbling reputation as a smart, eloquent spy, he called for Owen to bring it for him as well. There was a question left on Owen’s lips, perhaps why Barb had known to buy that as well, but he dropped it. </p><p>He was off pouring their drinks in no time. </p><p>Call it the universe compelling him to one-up himself in looking like a fool or his chaotic mind not knowing its limits, but Curt felt a strong urge to move from the couch in Owen’s absence. Not that he did not enjoy the softness of the couch. It did him well. He simply wanted a change of scenery. One could only sit on it for so long. The dining room table, though not too major a change, seemed like a better place to be. It had a better view of Owen, too.</p><p>However, in the absence of Owen also lived the absence of Curt’s foresight and judgement. He knew he could get up off the couch alright. It would hurt, but he could. He also had confidence that making his way over to the dining room table would be a piece of cake. Walking was the least arduous thing he could do besides sitting. But, he had not thought out the actual process of sitting down. He did not think about how it would tug at his stitches, or how it would do this before he could properly brace himself. </p><p>In moments, Curt went from standing tall by the table to scrambling for the very thing to keep him from crumbling. To his dismay, his hand missed the table and sent him into an even more uncomfortable position, his back threatening to bend. Curt was sure this would be a costly fall. He was sure it would send him back a few days in his recovery.</p><p>But then, something kept him from falling.</p><p>Rather, <em>someone</em> kept him from falling.</p><p>Curt looked up in shock. There was Owen, sans bottles and food, holding him. Actually holding him. It was perhaps the closest they had ever been in terms of physical contact, and that fact alone was enough to leave Curt feeling helpless to his own body’s reactions. For one, he could not help how Owen’s chest against his back prompted thoughts of how nice it would feel to lay protected in his arms. Also, the way Owen’s hands clutched at his bicep and held his waist drove him to burn up beyond composure. His skin felt scalding where Owen’s fingers pressed into it, and the more he meditated over the feeling, the more his gut yearned to feel nothing else. He had to restrain himself from leaning into it. He could not restrain his mind from leaning into the idea of more though -- more tight grasps, more impassioned embraces. </p><p>As bad as the pain had been, Curt felt like the universe had smiled on him to put him in a position to feel such things.</p><p>Of course, until reality kicked in and he realized where he was.</p><p>His face went positively scarlet. In that second, when the embarrassment and the gravity of the moment settled in Curt’s gut, he thanked everything Owen had caught him from behind. If he had seen him, if he knew how flustered his save made him, it would have been disastrous. He might as well have gone along with the staring conversation and same himself the torture.</p><p>“T-Thanks,” he stuttered, feeling his stomach tie in knots. Those hands of Owen’s did not ease up as he was maneuvered into his seat. That was not something Curt was going to be able to recover from any time soon, no matter where he sat. “I thought I could make it.”</p><p>“Though I’m a fan of independent thought Curt, independent thoughts like that are going to hurt you."</p><p>With that, Owen finally released his hands from Curt’s body, running one of them through his hair. </p><p>“Try...try not to hurt yourself any more before I bring the refreshments over, yeah?”</p><p>Curt nodded. “No promises.”</p><p>Unlike others, he was successful in keeping that promise. Not that he had a mind to move a muscle. He was still screaming over what had happened moments before. His body was still tingling from the way Owen had touched it and lit up his world. For a man who was about to have a serious conversation, he truly felt unprepared. Not even the drinks Owen eventually brought could help, curse his medication. As Owen sat across from him and grabbed his glass to sip at, Curt pouted and grabbed his.</p><p>“Hmm, well, Barb did a delightful job with this one,” Curt heard Owen muse. He looked up to find him pensive, swirling the red liquid around in his glass. “It’s absolutely delicious. I do hope yours is even half as good, ol’ boy.”</p><p>“It is. Nothing like wine, but you know.” He took a sip. “Good.”</p><p>Owen hummed. Looking to the platter, he leaned forward and picked off a handful of grapes. Curt watched him pop a few into his mouth, still a mile away mentally despite sitting right there. It made him mad. It was a miracle he could even function when Owen stopped and turned his attention back to him.</p><p>“I don’t know where to start.”</p><p>Oh, well that was a comfort. At least they were on the same page.</p><p>“I don’t really, either.”</p><p>“We did not leave off in a great place.”</p><p>“We didn’t.”</p><p>“And I was an emotional wreck.”</p><p>“Ah, you were human,” Curt corrected, smiling slightly. Owen huffed out a laugh of his own, but its light faded fast. He soon was reaching for his wine again, his face falling more by the second and the gulp. Curt wanted desperately to reach over and take his hand to give him comfort, to reassure him this was awkward for him, too. They could do this.</p><p>"Speaking of, I was talking with Barb. You know, about us."</p><p>"May I ask why?"</p><p>"Not yet," he said, continuing before Owen could protest. "Anyway, she suggested getting to know each other might help smooth out...whatever we have going on before the weapons drop. I know you yelled at me for divulging 'personal information' when I spoke about my mom before, but I think this will be good for us. I really want to try it. Would you be okay with that?"</p><p>The skepticism on Owen's face was not lost on Curt. But, he bowed his head in acceptance, and that was all Curt needed to feel the motivation to continue. Plucking a grape branch for himself, he popped one in and smiled.</p><p>"Cool. I guess, uh, I'll start first?"</p><p>Owen sipped at his drink. "Go on."</p><p>Shifting in his seat, he took a deep breath and began. "Well, uh, I became a spy when I was eighteen. I don't know if that's a great place to start, but it's when a lot started for me. My past was not that eventful."</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p>"Well, after my dad left us when I was a baby, my mom worked nonstop to make sure I had as much of a normal life otherwise as possible. She sent me to public school and involved me in all the things normal public schoolers were in. You know, playing baseball and swimming, study sessions with friends after school. I even helped plan my senior class' class prank. Though," he laughed, "that was not something she was thrilled about.</p><p>"When it came time to go to college, she left things up to me. Her words were, 'If you want to go exploring the world, don't let me stop you.' I don't know if she would've been so encouraging if she knew I was going to become a spy, but she didn't stop me. She paid for my trip to D.C. and happily moved into her new safe house the next week. That might have been because it was far better than our old shack, now that I think about it. Oh well."</p><p>Owen smiled across the table. Curt noticed his glass was now half full, but he refused to comment on it. Not if he was amusing Owen.</p><p>"She sounds delightful."</p><p>"She is," he agreed, reaching for more grapes. "She can be a bit much, but she puts up with so much. Let's just say, I'm not sure how many mothers out there would patch up bullet holes in their son's shirts without batting an eye."</p><p>Huffing, Owen shook his head. "Few, I assume." </p><p>"Anyway, I joined the agency and went right into training. They asked me why I was there and I told them I wanted to do more than waste away in some factory or office space. Apparently that was good enough, because the next thing I knew, I was shoved into Cynthia's office and told to prepare for my first mission. That mission was the only other time I worked with someone, and I'm pretty sure it is why they placed me alone from there on out."</p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>Curt's eyes sparkled. "I outdid the guy. The objective was to retrieve weapons blueprints without their mobster owner noticing, and while my mentor made it seem like mission impossible, I snuck around and snagged them. It took ten minutes. Cynthia was so impressed, she told me to stop wasting her other agents' time and get to work. I've been one of her top agents ever since."</p><p>"And that is why you were so against working with me?"</p><p>In that second, Curt willed his cider to become wine. "You caught onto that?"</p><p>"Your skepticism was as easy to read then as your nervousness," he quipped, raising a brow. As Curt floundered, Owen brought his wine to his lips, pausing to smile before sipping again. "It was not hard to guess, love."</p><p>"It wasn't that I was against it," he confessed. "Cynthia just made it feel like it was a demotion, like she didn't trust me to get the job done alone. I know now that it was more she knew we were working with actual demons, but still."</p><p>"Hindsight is twenty-twenty."</p><p>"Exactly."</p><p>Owen bunched up the sleeves on his shirt to his elbows and then reached once more for his glass. It perplexed him how often Owen kept turning to it. Normally, he was the smart one, and here he was downing his wine like water. It made no sense. It was hard to reprimand him, though, when he was acting so willing to listen. It was even harder when Curt sensed Owen's time to speak came. Grabbing some cheese and crackers, Curt made a little sandwich and then gestured to him with it.</p><p>"There's my backstory. Tell me yours."</p><p>It did not come as a surprise that Owen downed the remainder of his glass. "I'm afraid it is not as 'sunshine and rainbows' as yours, love. Are you sure?"</p><p>Curt nodded. He would listen to Owen talk about pretty much anything at that moment. </p><p>"I was born in East Sussex. Brighton to be specific. My parents were lovely, but they already had my sister Nellie and were beginning to suffer from the depression, so I was more of a burden than blessing."</p><p>"You have a sister?"</p><p>Curt's incredulousness seemed to amuse Owen. He bat his eyes and reached over for his bottle, pouring more wine into his glass. "Yes. She's three years older than myself. Blonde, if you could believe it. I believe she teaches now not far outside Nottingham."</p><p>"That's so cool."</p><p>Owen gazed down fondly. "It is. Unfortunately, our childhood was not. It was rather...rough, I would say. I often played protector to my mother and sister while my father worked long hours in a warehouse. When he went off to serve in the war, you would not have noticed much of a difference besides my mother joining a rationing group. I still protected them. I worked odd jobs to supplement what my father sent back to us, I walked my sister to school since we could not afford a car for her. I did what I did because it was what I had to do. It was not until my dad returned in forty-five that I truly got a break."</p><p>"So he survived?"</p><p>Owen nodded. "But not for long."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>"He was exposed to something toxic when out in the field," he explained, voice dropping rather grim in tone. "The loss was so great, my family was unsure what to do. My mother spiraled. My sister tried her best to help her, but there was only so much she could do."</p><p>"And you?"</p><p>Owen swirled his wine around in the glass. "I grew angry. Bitter. So frustrated and out to avenge him that, the day after I finished school, I showed up at MI6 and offered myself up to get back at whoever did such a thing. I was only sixteen, but I had to do it. And I never turned back. Not for Mom, not for Nellie. No one."</p><p>"Wait, sixteen?"</p><p>"We do things differently across the pond," he noted. "They took me in and, after clearing me to work, had me train alongside a mentor, not unlike you. Only, we stayed together past the first mission. For a while after the first mission, actually."</p><p>Curt hesitated. "He was your partner, wasn't he?"</p><p>A sad look crossed Owen. "His name was Samuel. Sam, for short. They put me with him because he knew his stuff and had a keen sense of direction. If I ever tripped up, he knew where to pick up and move forward. He also was incredible with a gun. Could take down ten men on his own, if you can believe it. And, he knew how to ease my apprehensions before I had them. He," Owen paused, eyes turning glassy. "He was the best first partner a person could ask for."</p><p>Without hesitation, Curt reached for the pretzel box, popped it open, and held it out for Owen to take. The laugh it elicited from Owen was small, but it meant the world to Curt to hear. He felt warmth enter his heart to see him actually reach for a pretzel. It was probably, aside from that night in his bedroom, the most vulnerable and truly himself he had seen Owen. Given all he just divulged, Curt had a sneaking suspicion it was a glimpse into the Owen that existed <em>before</em> MI6. </p><p>Curt really, really liked pre-MI6 Owen.</p><p>"What did Sam look like?"</p><p>Sipping on his wine some more, Owen shrugged. "I suppose, if you ask anyone who knew him, they'd say average."</p><p>"And you?"</p><p>Owen sadly chuckled. "He was the most handsome son of a bitch I had ever met."</p><p>Well damn. Curt had not expected that. No, no that was way too suggestive and suspicious for Curt to ever expect. Guys called each other handsome, right? That was a thing? He wasn't implying...?</p><p>Somewhere, deep within Curt's brain, he was reminded that neither of them had said they were handsome to the other when they were dressed for the ball, despite both looking the epitome of the word. That thought was quickly shoved to the back of his brain, cornered by two henchmen, and taken out before it could torment Curt's mind more. He muzzled the scream that tried to leave his lips with a pretzel. </p><p>He did not give a damn if Owen thought he was acting funny. It was a miracle he had not passed out yet, <em>dammit.</em></p><p>"He commanded a room any time he wore a suit," Owen continued, blissfully unaware somehow of the distress he was causing. "You could just tell he was important by looking at him. He had these broad shoulders, kind of like yours, though a bit more lanky. They gave him this intense look. And his hair was like yours, but blond and a tad bit shaggier. He didn't like hair gel. Always got on me for mine," he laughed, sending another jolt of panic through Curt's veins. "He had you beat with the eyes, though. Those things were baby blue like the ocean. He could charm anyone and anything with those things. They took my breath away."</p><p>"Owen-"</p><p>"They couldn’t compare to your smile, though."</p><p>Curt went pale. </p><p>
  <em> "Owen?" </em>
</p><p>"Your smile is much nicer than his," he sighed, downing enough wine in passing that Curt felt compelled to snatch it from him and end their mutual suffering. "It's so bright. Sam's was good but, yours...yours gives me butterflies, Curt."</p><p>"Maybe you should hold off on the wine, Owe." Curt was gritting his teeth, knowing he had to say it. "I don't think you're in your right mind right now."</p><p>Despite being in whatever cloud his Merlot put him on, Curt could see Owen's gaze sour a bit at that. It almost worried him. Things had, up until then, been going so well. Owen had been so open. He did not want to ruin it now. But, he also did not want what he thought was happening to happen under the influence. It would mean the world to know for certain where Owen stood, but if it was not intended to be said...</p><p>Well, he would rather the guessing game continue.</p><p>"I'm being honest, Curt. Isn't that what you want? Honesty? The truth?"</p><p>Curt felt the air leave his lungs. "Y-Yes, but...but it's not right."</p><p>"My truth is not right? So much for promising not to judge me, Curt."</p><p>Shaking his head, Curt finally did reach over and grab the Merlot from the table. He simply could not let it go on any longer, especially if Owen was starting to misconstrue things. No matter what he was thinking and feeling, he had to. Owen protested, but Curt paid it no mind. "No, that's not it at all. Look just...go back upstairs, Owen. Sleep off the wine." </p><p>"The wine's not doing anything! Why won't you let me admit what I like about y-"</p><p>"Owen?" Curt sighed, shoving his eyes shut. "I'll make you a deal. If you can remember this tomorrow, you can tell me. I swear. I won't do anything to stop you. You can let it all out. Okay?"</p><p>Curt watched Owen's face go through a range of emotions. Frustration turned into confusion. Confusion turned into an emotionless state. The emotionless state turned into distress. It was not until he reached panic, his eyes wide and his breathing quicker than normal, that Curt realized he might have been sobering up very quickly. Too quickly, it appeared. In a flash, Owen fled. He stood up, tossed his chair aside, and ran up the stairs out of sight. </p><p>Back downstairs, Curt was left alone to both the food and his self-loathing thoughts. <em>So much for getting closer,</em> his mind groaned, a hand diving into the chocolate pretzels. <em>So much for a proper conversation. The man nearly confesses he likes you and what do you do? Screw it up! Why, if Barb could have any idea, she would yell at you so loud-</em></p><p><em>Shit.</em> Owen almost confessed he liked him.</p><p>He liked his partner. He -- most likely -- liked him. That was a real thing that happened. It might still happen, if he didn't scare Owen half to death or ruin his impression of him just then... </p><p>
  <em> It might still happen. </em>
</p><p>Curt leaned back in his seat and rubbed his face. </p><p>It was going to be a <em> long </em>few days before the drop.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Never Been A Fan of Safety</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The drop finally happens, but not without serious consequences. The game forever changes for our two spies.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(Wanted to do something different and post the notes at the end this time since they're a little long, but who would I be if I did not say I hope you enjoy this one? :) Also heads up, it switches between POV here -- I found it too hard to do the drop in Curt's POV since he's not there lol. Don't worry, I've marked where we return to it from Owen's so you know!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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    <p>Owen did not like to hide.</p>
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    <p>He never had, and never did. The repercussions of it were <span class="adverb"> scarcely </span> worth it, despite what his anxieties protested. For one, he hated seeing Curt disappointed. Hiding always left Curt disappointed when he left his room, even more so now. Also, Owen hated having to switch around his schedule to make sure they did not run into each other. It was all so <span class="adverb"> cowardly</span>, so idiotic. Curt would not judge him, <em>he promised</em>, but gosh did Owen feel worthy of it. It was an action of idiocy.</p>
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  <p>But, his mind did not care.</p>
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    <p>Any time he felt assured or relaxed, it stormed in. <span class="veryhardreadability"> It reminded him of his not-so-subtle revelation, of how he told Curt in no uncertain terms that he was not heterosexual and <em>very much</em> falling for him, and he <em>suffered</em> for it</span>. It stared him in the face and told him he should feel ashamed. Liking Curt, liking <em>any</em> man, was shameful, especially after the death of Sam. He did not <em>deserve</em> to enjoy the company of another man after that. Getting tipsy and revealing it only meant he needed double punishment.</p>
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    <p>So, he hid.</p>
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    <p>And hid.</p>
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    <p>And continued to hide all the way up until the day of the drop.</p>
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    <p>He had better things to do than speak to Curt, anyway. If he had any hope of preparing for the solo mission, he needed to prepare for it. Number one on his to-do list was a stack of MI6 paperwork on his desk, and he had put off tending to it for too long. He needed to read, sort, catalogue, and analyze each one. That was his best bet of getting out alive, for the information they shared very well could mean life or death. They also could mean a successful capture of Maxim. Curt could wait until that job <span class="passivevoice"> was finished</span>.</p>
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    <p>In the back of Owen's mind though, he wondered what Curt thought about it all -- about their new state of being. He had been against the drop from the start. Now that he knew Owen's true feelings on some level, was he even more anxious? Was he waiting to catch him so he could <em> <span class="adverb">really</span> </em> tell him no, he couldn't go out on his own? Was he waiting to confess his own feelings and beg Owen to stay?</p>
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    <p>Would he be able to tell him no if so?</p>
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  <p><span class="hardreadability">It was ridiculous to think about, Owen thought back-and-forth as he shuffled through documents</span>. He did not even know where Curt stood. For all he knew, he could hate him. He could be avoiding him as much as he had been avoiding Curt. Hell, he could even be working on contacting Cynthia or MI6 to report him for indecent behavior. Owen had suspicions since day one that Curt was like him, but what if those signals had been wrong? What if Curt blushed in front of every new person he met? What if he had a nasty habit of holding gazes too long? Of stuttering his words when caught off guard by conversation? Of instigating flirty conversation? He had appeared fine around Barb. What if he was on his game around the people he <span class="adverb"> truly </span> felt attraction toward?</p>
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    <p>Owen felt himself growing mad.</p>
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  <p>He almost did go mad the night before the mission. <span class="hardreadability"> He stayed up for hours pacing his room, scrambling through notes, choosing and re-choosing his outfit</span>. <span class="veryhardreadability"> His mind flickered between scenarios, ways he could catch Maxim, theories on why he had random women knowing about his gatherings, things he needed to look out for</span>. He thought of everything, did everything, that could <span class="qualifier"> possibly </span> get his mind off of Curt. Unfortunate for him, each thing he <em>did</em> think or do led right back to him. MI6 notes were preludes to notes he'd have to deliver to Curt post-mission. His outfit could elicit a telling reaction out of him -- if they ever dared to cross paths again, of course. If he caught Maxim, their time together might come to a close faster than planned. He did not want that. How could he get the mission done without it, though?</p>
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    <p>By the time the first few rays of sun appeared, Owen was mentally exhausted from all the thinking. Sure, he got dressed fine -- it had been ages since he last wore his dark brown trench coat -- but he did not <em>feel</em> fine. His mind was too scattered. He was not on his normal game. He <span class="adverb"> really </span> did not need to go out into the field like that, not on such a dangerous mission, but he had no choice. He had to get the job done. Do MI6 proud. Jump over one hurdle so he could return and jump through plenty more at home with Curt.</p>
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    <p>He had to do well by Curt.</p>
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    <p>Gun holstered at his side, Owen took a deep breath and went for the door. When he opened the door, his timer would start ticking. He would need to enter spy mode. He would have to use his training to push by everything, maintain a cold countenance, and do his job. And he would, because he was Britain's best spy, <em>dammit</em>. He could do it. He would prove himself wrong. He would be fine.</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He wanted to shut the door the moment it opened.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Curt?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Standing there in a muted green robe and worn pajama bottoms, Curt was a sight frozen in time. His hand was up, most likely stopped mid-knocking. His eyes, those gorgeous things of his, stared back at him wide like saucers. If Owen did not know any better, he might have even been blushing. It stopped Owen and his resolve cold. Curt let out a small, embarrassed laugh.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Owen?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Were you about to knock?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"W-Were you on your way out?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen sighed. Bold of him to assume Curt would not try to deflect this one. Leaning on the door frame, he folded his arms. "As a matter of fact, yes. Is there something you want?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There was a question on Curt's lips, Owen could feel it. Whenever Curt paused and thought for too long, he had a question. The question must have not been pressing, though, for it looked to <span class="passivevoice"> be tossed </span> aside in favor of something else. Something that had Curt more nervous. Clearing his throat, he folded his arms as well.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"So um...do you think you're ready?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen stared forward. "Curt, I don't have time for this. Either tell me your real reason for almost knocking, or let me go."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I <span class="qualifier"> just</span>," Curt grit his teeth, arms flexing on his chest. "Is there anything you need to say? Before you go? To me?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>No. This was not what Owen wanted to talk about. Not then, not there. <span class="hardreadability"> Not when time was ticking and intercepting Maxim was </span> <span class="adverb"> slowly </span> <span class="hardreadability"> becoming a trickier thing by the minute</span>. Any other time would do better. Any time when he had a chance to <em>think</em>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em> <span class="adverb">Properly</span> </em> think.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> Steeling himself, he forced his eyes to meet Curt's, regaining some semblance of composure </span>. "No, Curt."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Are you sure? Nothing at all?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Yes," he snapped. "Now please, let me by."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen took a step forward, only to <span class="passivevoice"> be stopped by </span> Curt. To the shock of them both, his hand was around Owen's own. A bold move. An <em>electric</em> move. If it was Curt's goal to get full attention, he sure had it. He cleared his throat.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"<span class="qualifier"> Just </span>...please be careful, Owe."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen looked into Curt's eyes. There was something there, dammit. Something more than general partner-to-partner care. He knew that something, saw that something every time he had said goodbye to Sam. Damn it all, it was serious. It was emotional. <span class="hardreadability"> It was Curt acknowledging what </span> <span class="passivevoice"> was said </span> <span class="hardreadability"> over wine and giving Owen immense remorse he could not stay to see where it went</span>. <span class="hardreadability"> Feeling the warmth in Curt's hand, acknowledging the emotion in his eyes, Owen shifted to instead grasp his forearm </span> . It was the same embrace they shared last time emotions played a role. It was <em>their</em> embrace. And dammit, if he was going to die before hearing Curt admit having feelings for him, he was going to feel it one more time. To his delight, Curt returned it <span class="adverb"> heartedly </span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>They exchanged a nod, and then off Owen went.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>~~~~~~</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Crisp and cold wind rustled on the docks. It was typical Fall weather for seven in the morning off the coast of France, but that did not make it any more bearable. The wind still bit. The air still tickled one's throat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Navigating around buildings, Owen had to tug his collar higher around his neck to avoid the worst of it. Alleys made for wicked wind tunnels, and if he was going to make his way down them unseen and unheard, he had to be careful.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He shielded himself all the way until he hit the final building, the one which faced the docks. Darla, the lady he fooled around with at the ball, said Maxim would meet his crew <span class="qualifier"> just </span> beyond it. Before nine, no one trekked out past it. It was the perfect spot for perfect criminals. Before settling in, Owen inspected the area for bugs and cameras. When all clear, he nestled himself behind a grouping of barrels.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>
      <em>Time to wait.</em>
    </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p><span class="adverb">Fortunately</span>, the waiting did not last long. The first few 'attendees' of Maxim's get-together shuffled into place fifteen minutes later. They greeted each other with nods and firm handshakes, much like any formal meeting. <span class="hardreadability"> One or two passed something along to each other between handshakes -- cash </span> <span class="adverb"> probably,</span><span class="hardreadability"> though it could be more</span>. <span class="hardreadability"> Their deals were too well-concealed for Owen to tell from where he crouched, and he did not care enough about side missions to wish to inquire further</span>. Whatever it was, those involved could not pose as much trouble as Maxim. Owen kept the thought in mind for later though, <span class="qualifier"> just </span> in case.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Shortly after the group's final members assembled, the man of the hour appeared. Maxim Lebedev walked up decked out from head-to-toe in black. He was quite a sight to behold, and Owen had seen plenty of evil people in his day. <span class="hardreadability"> His tousled jet-black hair blew in the wind, obscuring visible scars from his forehead with every gust</span>. His eyes were cold and narrow, but he wore a smirk that hinted at it being a rouse. A distraction. An intimidation tactic.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> As his boots clicked loud against the deck's creaking wood, his acquaintances jumped into place</span>. They nodded to him, one by one, until all fourteen had given proper greeting. This was helpful for Owen, as it and the wind revealed to him there were not only men in attendance, but also women. <span class="hardreadability"> One unfortunate girl's hat midway through the clan fell in a gust as she bowed, revealing her dark hair to the elements </span>. She scrambled to grab it and return it to her head before Maxim saw, almost as if it was some great offense otherwise. Owen was not sure Maxim would have cared either way. He looked too determined, too focused. One girl would not make the difference in that trained world.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With one final click of the boots on wood, the crowd <span class="passivevoice"> was called </span> to attention.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Welcome friends," he began, his Russian accent seeping through each word he spoke. "Last we spoke, I instructed you to set up transfers for our new products. I trust that they are in place and ready for today's transactions. We do not need any slip ups."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Nods and mumbles met Maxim. Behind the barrels, Owen shifted to watch the man closer.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"We have a trying time approaching. Eyes are watching us, and they are about to go global. With our venture expanding, more people will grow curious." Flipping back the side of his coat, a silver pistol met the glint of the morning sun. No one made a sound toward it, but Owen felt the air shift. The game had become dangerous then. <em>His</em> game had become dangerous. Reached for his gun, he readied himself for the air to shift again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"We already had to shoot down one spy. I am sure I do not have to stress to you how important it is we do not have to do it again. Are we understood?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Everyone nodded. Owen, knowing exactly who that 'one spy' was, had to grit his teeth not to act <span class="adverb"> prematurely </span> in his honor. It was in times like that that he thanked everything for Sam's diligent patience training.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Good. That is the attitude we need heading into the era of the Golden Eagle."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>Golden Eagle.</em> That was new. That was not mentioned in any MI6 materials. Owen made a mental note before refocusing.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You see," Maxim continued, voice bouncing off the docks, "as it rises, we will need to become more reclusive. More...<em>tactical</em> with our communication. The Hawire textile empire has been a lovely vessel for us to use so far, as private and inconspicuous as it is. But our product is growing larger. Technology is advancing. We are going to need to resort to larger means of moving it, and when that happens, secrecy will <span class="passivevoice"> be jeopardized</span>. I need to trust not a single soul will slack in their duty to protect that secrecy. I need to trust that this will be a team effort."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You can trust that," a man near the front, not Russian but not anything Owen recognized either, affirmed. For as much as it sounded like the man was kissing ass in doing so, his words brought a genuine smile onto Maxim's face. He nodded his way, confirming approval.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You've always been trustworthy, dear Alex. But, <span class="qualifier"> I feel </span> as if I need to showcase to you all what might happen if you or any friends get some...ideas." Reaching for his gun, Maxim undid the safety. The crowd looked spooked, save for the Alex guy, but they were not in the line of fire of the gun.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen was. Somehow, in some way, he was. And his heart all about stopped.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A dark chuckle made its way over through the wind.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Care to join us, Agent Carvour?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>No.</em> No, this could not be happening. He had been so careful. He had checked cameras, bugs, anything that could give him away. He was silent and very much hidden. <span class="hardreadability"> He spoke to no one besides Curt and MI6 about the mission details, and even then, Curt had </span> <span class="passivevoice"> been left </span> <span class="hardreadability"> out of much of the specifics</span>. Maxim could not have known he would be there. He <em>should not</em> have known. For the second time that day, Owen's mind raced.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Oh do come out, Owen dear. We do not have all day."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>
      <em>Shit.</em>
    </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen stood <span class="adverb"> slowly</span>. He used every ounce of his concentration on remaining cool, but he knew this was the start of the clock. He had only mere seconds, or minutes if he was lucky, to get out of this. Stepping out from behind the barrels, he raised his hands and walked forward. The eyes of the crowd flew to him, curious and vengeful.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "You know Carvour, I </span> <span class="adverb"> really </span> <span class="hardreadability"> thought you would have learned to avoid meddling in other peoples' business by now</span>. Was the bullet in your partner not good enough?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I'm not one to follow the orders of strangers and cowards," Owen deadpanned, biting back venom. Curt was too good for Maxim to speak about. He hardly deserved respect or dignity on his part. Maxim, likewise, spared no feelings.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Bold words coming from a pawn of the British government."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You Russians are ones to talk."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Tsk, it's such a pity that that's the best you can do." Maxim motioned for Owen to come forward. Owen, knowing better than to run away then, did so until he was about a foot away from the Russian's pistol. It brought a vile smirk to Maxim's face. "I've always heard your people had such ways with words. <span class="adverb"> Frankly</span>, I'm disappointed."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"If you're going to kill me, get on with it, yeah?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Ah, but where is the fun in that?" Maxim asked, nudging the gun closer. "That's no way for a famed spy like yourself to go down. Besides, going without a fight is pathetic."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen set his jaw and <span class="adverb"> deliberately </span> made eye contact with his mark. "Not pathetic.<em> Efficient.</em> Word will spread regardless. Less of a scramble means less of a commotion. Less possible witnesses. A clean shot. Either way though, I'm sorry to inform you, ol' chap. <em>You'll </em> <em>lose</em>. You all lose, <span class="adverb"> eventually</span>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>At the movement of Maxim's pistol, Owen was <span class="adverb"> slowly </span> forced to his knees. The following cold touch of metal against his forehead sent a chill down Owen's spine. He had felt it before. It haunted him in his dreams. No matter how much training he received, the feeling never grew less unsettling. Not to mention, his heart already was racing from the instruction. That did not help. A man could do plenty on his feet. On his knees, well...options fell slim. He would have to act swift and precise if he was to get out of this situation alive. He would prefer to <span class="passivevoice"> be unscathed</span>, but it looked as if that was no longer an option the more time ticked on.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I'll let you in on a secret, Agent Carvour," Maxim sneered. "I <em>don't</em> lose. I <em>won't</em> lose. No matter what you claim you know, I <em>always</em> know more. My group<em> always</em> knows more. How else do you think I knew you would be here today? I knew. Beyond your best efforts, your team's best efforts, I knew. And I<em> always</em> will. So, good luck at keeping up your mission and whatever secrets you have. They won't be secrets forever."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen cast away his gaze, making the man chuckle. <span class="hardreadability"> Figuring that out, worrying about its meaning, was an issue for another time, if he could venture to another place again</span>. God, he hoped he could venture somewhere else again. Maxim was right. This was no way for him to go out. The great Owen Carvour deserved a show-stopping finale, not a botched job on a dock.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"You're weak, Owen. And I'm bored with you."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Right as Owen figured he was going to fire his killer shot, plans changed. Instead of a bullet lodging into his mind, the entire gun met Owen's head, knocking him to the ground. To add insult to injury, Maxim confiscated his gun and landed an extra blow to his gut. <span class="adverb"> Barely </span> conscious, Owen gasped out a small moan. It must not have <span class="passivevoice"> been heard</span>, for Maxim left him then. But, it was far from the end of Owen's suffering. With a snap of a finger, two of the men in attendance were landing kicks all over his body.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>If he had not fallen unconscious, he would have screamed.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Down the docks, Maxim turned back to look at the scene and smiled. Tipping his hat to Owen's crumpled body, he turned to his group.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Onto phase two. Begin unloading the weapons."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>~~~<strong>CURT'S POV, back at the safe house</strong>~~~</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He about jumped out of his seat when the call came in.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt had been antsy all day, pacing back and forth through the rooms in the safe house. <span class="hardreadability">He hardly had the time to think about the horrible blunder he had made with Owen earlier that day, or the fact he refused to fess up to his feelings</span>. All he could think about was Owen's safety. If he was okay. If he was hitting any bumps. If he would <span class="passivevoice">be ambushed</span> <span class="qualifier">just</span> like his old partner, leaving Curt to a life of what-ifs and regret.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>God</em>, he hoped for anything other than that.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>It was all he thought of when his communicator beeped.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Heart stopped, he answered the call.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Barb? Barb, what's going on? Is it Owen? Is everything okay?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "Whoa whoa, I'm going to need you to calm down there, Curtis," she said, </span> <span class="adverb"> obviously </span> <span class="hardreadability"> overwhelmed by the fifth-degree</span>. Curt would <span class="adverb"> probably </span> apologize for it later, when he was not fearing for his partner's life. "<span class="qualifier">Maybe </span> sit down for me?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"He's dead, isn't he? Oh God, he's dead. I wasn't there for him."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Curt!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"He's alive, you dummy!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Oh.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>
      <em>Oh.</em>
    </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>
      <em>Thank God.</em>
    </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What happened?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "Agent Carvour encountered an unexpected bump in his mission," she explained, voice slow to calm Curt.</span> "Somehow, Maxim knew he was there. <span class="adverb"> Apparently</span>, he had Owen at point-blank range."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Curt's stomach sank. He could picture the sight clear as day. <em>He</em> had been in that picture only a week and a half back. He knew the feelings, still felt them at night in his nightmares. The fact that Owen had to endure them for himself...Curt could be sick.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Clearing his throat, he paced over to the nearest window. "Did he get shot?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"<span class="adverb">Miraculously</span>, no," Barb answered. "I don't know the specifics, but it seems as if Owen <span class="passivevoice"> was spared </span> for some reason. He <span class="passivevoice"> was beaten </span> pretty bad, though. And pistol whipped, according to the medics."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Medics? He's safe?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Yup," she chirped. "After no communication from him, MI6 officers scoped out the area. They found him on the ground unconscious and brought him to the nearest medical facility. He was up and talking according to MI6 personnel last time I asked."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt could kiss Barb, that news was such music to his hears. "Okay, uh, how do I get to him? Do you know the name of the facility? If I leave now, <span class="qualifier"> I might </span> be able to make good time before the lunch rush."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>There was a pause. "Curt, I do not think you should go out on your own."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Barb, that's my partner out there," he protested, voice raising in tune with his pulse. "He almost <span class="passivevoice"> was shot </span> execution style today and I wasn't there. I need to see him."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You need to protect yourself," she retorted, sounding more like his mom than his friend. "Someone listened in on Owen's communications, Curt. Until we know who did that, you are at risk if you leave the safe house. Maxim's people might be waiting for a moment like that to strike."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Curt slammed his hand against the wall. A gasp sounded on the other line, signaling Barb must have heard it. Though he hated to scare her, Curt found it hard to feel apologetic in such a frustrating moment like this. He <span class="passivevoice"> was <em>pissed</em></span>. <span class="hardreadability"> It was either hit the wall or scream, and well...drawing audible attention to a safe house was rather counter-intuitive.</span></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"When the hell will I see him then?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Papers rustled. "As of last communication, Agent Carvour was in the middle of an evaluation. Depending on the results, he could arrive anywhere between the next hour or the next twenty four. I'm sorry Curt, that's as much as I know."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Fine. Bye Barb."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Curt, wait!" Hearing him remain on the line, Barb rustled a few more papers. "Cynthia told me to tell you that she wants to meet with you and the Hawire family. She scheduled it for two days from now, at noon. It's to discuss the mission and how to proceed moving forward now that our plan might <span class="passivevoice"> be compromised</span>."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt let out a heavy sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. Great. Seeing Cynthia was exactly what he needed among all this mess. She always loved seeing him emotional. He could hear it now: <em>Curt, you absolute dunce. <span class="hardreadability">Get your head out of your ass and into the mission before I shoot you point blank or toss you to rookies for target practice</span>.</em> That would do wonders for the ol' mental health.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Thanks Barb. Tell her I <em>cannot</em> wait."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"It'll be okay, Curt," she assured <span class="adverb"> softly</span>, <span class="adverb"> clearly </span> worried about his sudden mood drop but too nervous to admit it. "I promise."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He pressed end on the call. He proceeded to walk to the couch and face-plant on it.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The doorbell rang ten minutes later, waking him from his nightmares.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He did not reach for his gun. Curt was so eager to see who was on the other side that hesitation was not even an option. He also did not worry for his stitches, which strained under the force by which he leapt from the couch. Any discomfort could wait for the person on the other side of the door. He had to see who it was. He had to see Owen.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>To his utter delight, Owen's familiar eyes stared back at him on the other side of the door. <span class="hardreadability"> He looked worse for wear -- bruises littered his skin, championed by a large black-and-blue one across his cheek.</span> A large cut slashed its way along his hairline. <span class="hardreadability"> The two agents at his side, sent by MI6 to ensure his safe return, looked as if they were struggling to support his weight on either side of him </span> . Curt had little doubt walking would be a touchy thing for him for the next day or so. He knew that hell well. But, that did not matter right then. What mattered was the man before him was <em>alive</em>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He would count blessings like that forever, from that moment on.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The agents who brought Owen back placed him in his room. They also confiscated his communicator, Curt noted. It made sense given what Barb said. He had half a mind to hand over his, but he knew the A.S.S. would have asked him to do so if they felt it necessary. Besides, it had <span class="qualifier">just</span> <span class="passivevoice">been made</span>. There was no way it could have already <span class="passivevoice">been compromised</span>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Still, <span class="qualifier"> just </span> to be safe, he left it in his room once the agents were gone and it was him and Owen. Other conversations, he <span class="qualifier"> possibly </span> could handle being overheard. The one he knew was coming? It was far from something he would want out as public knowledge.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Taking the familiar steps up the stairs, he tried his best to prepare for it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen was awake. He looked pained, and the bruise on his cheek was growing uglier by the minute, but he was awake. Upon seeing Curt, he looked to even crack a smile. Whatever he tried, Curt made sure to meet it with a smile. He placed himself to the left of Owen, <span class="adverb"> gently </span> sitting on the edge of the bed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You broke your promise, you know."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Hmm?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I told you to be careful," Curt said. "You nodded. But, here we are."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sputtering out a hoarse cough, Owen side-eyed Curt. "That was far from a promise, love."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Yeah, well I counted it as one, so you owe me," he chided. "Big time. I'm talking a whole box of those chocolate pretzels. And the <em>biggest</em> bottle of liquor you can fine. I'm quite fond of Brandy."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Curt."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt smiled <span class="adverb"> fondly</span>. It soon <span class="passivevoice"> was replaced, though, </span> concern taking priority. "What happened, Owe? Barb said you <span class="passivevoice"> were ambushed</span>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wincing at his pain, Owen tried in vain to prop himself up more to speak. Curt reached to adjust his pillow to help him without asking, earning a grateful sigh. "I don't know. I checked <em>everywhere</em>. No signs of cameras. No bugs. <span class="hardreadability"> Other than the man who owned the bait shop and was setting up about a hundred meters before the final building, there was not a soul</span>. I swear."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Do you think someone tipped them off?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I don't know," Owen repeated. "Ourselves and our governments were the only ones who knew of it. <span class="qualifier"> Perhaps </span> <span class="hardreadability"> the woman said something, but she didn't strike me as someone interested in anything beyond a quick shag.</span> She only spoke because she was trying to invite me over while her husband was away at it."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt huffed, rolling his eyes. "Imagine if you had accepted <em>that</em> mission instead."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>To his delight, that earned a laugh. "Yeah. I'd be a lot less upset, I take it."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"As anyone in a pretty girl's bed would be, I'm sure."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I'm more content to be here, though."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Looking back at Owen, Curt blinked. "<span class="adverb">Really</span>? I mean, no offense, but being here has you looking like a little kid's hand-art painting, Owe."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen shrugged -- at least, as best he could. "Yeah, well, I personally find the company here a bit more enticing."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>
      <em>Oh fuck.</em>
    </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Time might as well have frozen in that second. Curt did not know how to play it off -- casual, surprised, panicked, unfazed. Was it the confession he was looking for? <span class="hardreadability"> Was Owen trying to say something, or was he reading too much into the situation given his previous stress and relief</span>?</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen answered Curt's unspoken questions for him. <span class="adverb"> Gently</span>, he brought his hand over to Curt's and wrapped his around it. When Curt's eyes flashed to his, he met them with a shyness Curt had never seen him possess before.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I broke a different promise, you know. I promised you to communicate, and I did not. I failed. <span class="veryhardreadability"> I was too overwhelmed with the mission, my own doubts, and my fears to </span> <span class="adverb"> properly </span> <span class="veryhardreadability"> say what you needed to know," he spoke, </span> <span class="adverb"> calmly</span><span class="veryhardreadability">, like his words were not causing Curt to </span> <span class="adverb"> internally </span> <span class="veryhardreadability"> scream</span>. "I owe you an explanation."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"You don't owe me anything, Owen."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I lied to you this morning."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt let out a breath. Hearing it, Owen squeezed his hand harder.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I did have words to say, love. I suppose it took <span class="adverb"> nearly </span> dying before getting them out to make me realize it's no way to live life, keeping secrets. Especially in our business."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Owen-"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="veryhardreadability"> "No, I waited too long to say anything to Sam, and I'm not letting history repeat itself with you," he swore </span> <span class="qualifier"> just </span> <span class="veryhardreadability"> above a whisper, eyes </span> <span class="adverb"> heartbreakingly </span> <span class="veryhardreadability"> sincere</span>. "I'm not giving Maxim the satisfaction. I even said, rule three is no secrets, right? Well, Curt, here are mine, for better or for worse."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt's chest tightened. He had dreamt of this situation so many times in sleep. Those dreams becoming reality was almost too much to handle. The firm grip on his hand, he swore, was all keeping him tethered to Earth.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"There was a reason why Sam and I worked so well together after training, why we were so in tune," Owen murmured. "According to MI6, we were two men gifted with a unique professional connection. The truth, though," he breathed, <span class="adverb"> suddenly </span> shaky, "was more...complicated."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Yeah?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Sam and I...we were more than partners out in the field." Grip <span class="adverb"> impossibly </span> tight on Curt's hand, Owen grew tense. "I know it was and is wrong. I know we could and should have <span class="passivevoice"> been killed </span> for it. I know it still could. But...Curt, we were together."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Like...?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Yeah," Owen breathed.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"<em>Oh</em>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Silence overtook them for a moment. Owen took it to try and read Curt's reaction. Curt took it to try and relearn how to breathe and process being <em>correct</em> about Owen, about everything. <span class="adverb"> Ultimately</span>, his racing mind could only allow him to remain quiet for so long. He soon had to act on such exciting information, lest he bottle it up and explode.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"H-How long have you known?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Every child I suppose has guesses, but it wasn't until Sam that I <span class="adverb"> fully </span> internalized it," he mused. Looking over to his window, he sighed. "Sam actually figured it out before I did, in a way. We both swore to keep it a secret from MI6. It was a secret he took to his grave."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I'll do the same," Curt offered. "If that's what you want."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen nodded, giving him another squeeze. God, he looked something heavenly when he looked at Curt like that, bruises aside. It sent flutters into his stomach. "Thank you, Curt. <span class="adverb"> Sincerely</span>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Of course. You know, I have a few secrets of my own I would like to get off my chest, while we're at it."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"But Curt, I wasn't fin-"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"<span class="qualifier">I think </span> you'll want to hear mine first," he grinned, finally squeezing his hand back. <span class="hardreadability"> He thought he saw the faintest of blushes at it, and that gave him all the motivation he needed to do what he needed to do next </span> . "You see...<em>I</em> knew when I was seventeen."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt watched Owen widen his eyes, <span class="adverb"> comically </span> so, before catching himself. It was, he was almost happy to admit, quite adorable.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="veryhardreadability"> "You sort of come to terms with things when the hottest girl in school asks you to a dance and you reject her on hopeless hope the star quarterback would ask instead," he joked</span>. Owen's face remained serious. If anything, it might have even grown more solemn. Curt sighed. "I never met anyone like me until I was nineteen, though. It wasn't a big romance or anything like what you had, but it was enough to confirm my feelings. <span class="adverb"> Truthfully, </span>that experience is how I was able to know from the start that I liked you."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>This time, Owen's reaction could not <span class="passivevoice"> be muted</span>. He sucked in a gasp of air. Curt squeezed his hand. <span class="hardreadability"> If he was not desperate to hear verbal confirmation on if the feeling was mutual, Curt would have taken that moment to kiss him</span>. <span class="complexword"> In lieu of </span> it, he did steal a gaze toward his lips. If Owen noticed, his previous shock did a wonderful job at masking it.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I know you <span class="passivevoice"> are scared</span>. I am, too. Seeing you come in tonight, all beaten and bruised, terrified me. It's risky having emotional ties in this business. One of us might wind up heartbroken. In your case, again. <span class="hardreadability"> But," Curt mused, rubbing his thumb along Owen's skin, "we're already fighting a ton of risky battles together</span>. What's another one on the pile?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>It had to be a fit of bravery. Either that or a momentary lapse of smarts cloaked in sheer stupidity. Whatever it was, in seconds, Owen's lips were on Curt's. It had to have hurt him, lurching forward the way he did to capture them. He had <span class="qualifier">just</span> <span class="passivevoice">been beaten</span>, for pete sakes. Curt remembered seeing bruises on his lips. Those could not have felt good with so much force used. It could not have been safe.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>And yet, Owen kissed him as if it was the best feeling in the world.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Lucky for him, Curt had never been much of a fan of safety.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He kissed back with everything he had, unashamed and unwilling to provide Owen any less. <span class="hardreadability"> When they </span> <span class="adverb"> eventually </span> <span class="hardreadability"> broke it off, panting and shocked at what had transpired, he was not surprised to find his hand resting on the back of Owen's neck</span>. Even less surprising was the blinding, dopey grin he was giving him in return. <span class="hardreadability"> No matter what their future held, Curt swore he would never forget that grin, or the watery tears he saw threatening behind Owen's restraint</span>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He would replay this scene over and over if he had to. <span class="hardreadability"> And, if Maxim was onto them and would </span> <span class="adverb"> eventually </span> <span class="hardreadability"> smite them out, he was sure and grateful that it would be the last thought he would ever have</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Pulling Owen into a tight hug, he let relief wash over him like a tidal wave.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Thanks for telling me, partner."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Anything for you, love."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"We'll be okay."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"We will."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt smiled.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>
      <em>We.</em>
    </p>
  </div>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Say it with me friends: THEY! DID! THAT! </p><p>I have looked forward to this moment for so, so long, as I imagine you have as well. I hope I did it justice &lt;3 I love these two spies so much and am happy to finally be able to explore their relationship as opposed to their flirtationship (or whatever that was lol). This is far from the end of the build up there too, so don't worry ;) </p><p>Also, I wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who last time offered encouragement/support about my mental health and taking my time. I actually had one of my most upsetting weeks ever last week (yay 2020), and I got really down about not being able to write this during that. I also got nervous about it not being good enough due to all that emotional stress. But, upon reading your comments and seeing your support, I found the motivation and strength to push through and write. I cannot thank you enough for it. You have no idea. &lt;3</p><p>AS FOR THE FUTURE -- we are about halfway done here! I'm super excited, like I said, to dive into all things Curtwen. But, I'm even MORE excited to expand upon what Maxim and his gang are up to. His and the Hawire family's story is only just beginning. To quote a certain spy, "This was merely a prologue. We haven't even reached our second-act climax yet." Feel free to let me know any ideas you might have of what might happen there, or who/what you think sold Owen out...*evil music*</p><p>Thank you all so, so incredibly much. This fic is my baby and I love making it for you all. If you loved this one, please let me know your thoughts/feelings in the comments &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. A Change Would Do You Good</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The mission becomes clearer as Curt and Owen meet with Cynthia and the Hawires. A slip of the tongue leads to yet another question of trust.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Long time, no see friends! Hope you all are well! Sorry for the major wait on this one. I had two weekends where I had to work again, plenty of assignments for my classes, and a general lack of satisfaction with my writing that stopped this one from happening. BUT it's here and I'm super psyched for you all to read it! I think it sets the tone for the rest of this fic pretty well. Do let me know what you think of it :) &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something wonderful about the period before meeting Cynthia. </p><p>For one, Owen had a chance to rest and recuperate from his injuries. Curt's stitches were nearly ready to come out, and he was far more mobile than he had been before. But, he often felt like a hindrance. A dead weight. It sucked not being on your top game and to be so immobile. He knew it would kill Owen to be in those same shoes. Having a break meant easing his conscience and giving him peace of mind to rest as needed.</p><p>Curt tried his best to be helpful whenever and however he could. Though cold and distant at times, Owen had done quite a lot to help him in the first few days of his injury. He wanted to do the same, regardless of how surface-level Owen's injuries appeared. So, he put himself to work. Whenever Owen had a request, he took it on without complaint. Picking out his clothes, helping him out of bed, cooking him dinner -- Curt did it all. Even if it complicated his day, he did it. He would do anything for Owen.</p><p>And not just because of their newfound arrangement.</p><p>That was another lovely perk about their two days of rest. They had time to indulge. To explore. To get to know each other now that feelings were in play and they could be honest with each other. </p><p>As with most situations where they grew close, Owen's first few instincts put distance between them. Even though he knew he was welcome to express himself without judgement, he was nervous. He hesitated to make the first move. He would come at Curt with his one-hundred-percent and then immediately reduce it to forty. Curt took it as a sign he needed to show him it was okay to express himself, to feel what he knew they both felt. </p><p>So, he took chances. </p><p>He peppered kisses to Owen's cheek and jaw when he helped him dress, swooning at how it colored his face pink every time. He joined him on his bed, taking to his side and not readjusting when their thighs touched. Touches to his shoulders, arms, and hands punctuated his words. Smiles became plenty.</p><p>It was a lot all at once, but he figured he had to start somewhere.</p><p>Thankfully, Owen did not protest. He remained shy, as time had still not freed him from butterflies, but he never once turned Curt away. He accepted kisses. He thanked Curt for acts of kindness. By the end of the second night, when Curt was moving to leave and shut off his lamp, he even snatched him by the wrist and brought him in for a kiss for the heck of it. It was forward enough to take Curt's breath away, and it gave him hope for a future of more -- more comfort, more domesticity, and more loving gestures.</p><p>While taking care of Owen, Curt let himself drift into thought about that future of more. Sure, the present did not exactly provide him comforting indicators of that future ever happening. The world looked down on people like them, and Maxim had their number. But, he still dreamed.</p><p>He dreamed of them out in the field, working in tandem to save the world. He dreamed of Owen Carvour, the sharpshooter, standing by his side and vowing to always have his back. He dreamed of a movie-like existence where he and Owen saved the world one minute, and shared the comfort of other's arms the next.</p><p>There were other dreams that Curt entertained along those lines. They mostly took place in Owen's bed -- a fitting place given how little he had left it since his return. Owen would be resting on his back, those chestnut locks of his every-which-way on the pillow. His eyes stared up at him, sparkling with a mix of golden flecks and complete adoration. Curt would lean down and kiss him, slow and sweet, drinking in the warmth he felt at their joint effort. Owen's soft sighs filled whatever air was not spent on the sound of their lips. </p><p>Curt could watch <em> this </em> movie-like dream on repeat.</p><p>How lucky was he that he could start to make it into a reality?</p><p>The morning of the meeting, he woke up to the rising of the sun. He padded out into the kitchen, shirtless, yawning, and donning the fuzzy slippers his mother gifted last Christmas, and began brewing coffee. Curt had no idea if Owen liked coffee. He struck him, stereotypically or not, as more of a tea person, but Barb had not bought tea on her trip to the store. She had bought coffee -- the exact kind Curt enjoyed the most, as a matter of fact. If Owen wanted caffeine to get through the day's nonsense, he would have to accept it. Curt just hoped that acceptance would be without fireworks.</p><p>Once he had the cups of coffee in tow, Curt made his way upstairs to face those potential fireworks. Owen was still sound asleep, face pressed against the pillow as he softly snored, blissfully unaware of the awakening awaiting him. It was enough to make Curt feel some guilt for having to wake him. He made a mental note to make it up to him as he slipped inside the room, shutting the door.  </p><p>Making it up to him consisted of giving him a couple more minutes to sleep. It was a small kindness handed out to cover for how Curt had dropped the ball in cleaning Owen's room like he promised before bed. He figured waking up and seeing the place spotless might ease the blow from the coffee. If that failed, well, he was prepared to give kisses. Lots of them.</p><p>Nothing like having a backup plan.</p><p>Placing himself at the edge of Owen's bed, he ran his hand through the sleeping agent's hair. It caused him to stir, but he did not protest or grumble his way. Curt took that as a positive sign. He reached to give him his cup, knowing consciousness was soon on its way. </p><p>"Morning," he whispered. He extended the drink to him, waiting for him to take it. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Owen did, though Curt could tell he was not entirely eager about it. The smell must have given its contents away. Curt sucked in a breath. "Figured you might want a calm start to today, ya know?"</p><p>Owen took his first sip with a hum, acknowledging how true that was. The night before, they had waxed poetically about how little they were looking forward to seeing the Hawires again. Had it not been for Curt's soft touches and Owen's subsequent bold kiss, he might have gone to bed furious. Starting off easy at least could give his mind somewhat of a break before those nightmarish emotions resurfaced. </p><p>"Sleep well?"</p><p>"As well as was possible," Owen assessed, gazing down at his mug and stretching his back. Curt swore he heard a pop, but he knew better than to point it out. "I forgot how shite bruised ribs are."</p><p>"Ah, the joys of the business."</p><p>He nodded, thoughtful. "And you?"</p><p>"Well. Though," Curt added with an awkward laugh, "it took a bit to actually pass out. I've been thinking and, even though no one's said anything, I don't really feel comfortable wearing my communicator. Not until we know what's happening, at least. It kept me up." </p><p>
  <em> Well, that and your lips. </em>
</p><p>Owen paused, seeming to mull this over. "It's best we lay low until you have answers. It can wait."</p><p>"Do you think it's compromised?"</p><p>"Possibly," he shrugged, caring more about his drink than meeting Curt's gaze. "I'm more inclined to believe mine was. How else would they have known I was planning to be there?"</p><p>"I mean, you did talk about it around mine. It wasn't anything specific, but still. They might have guessed well enough."</p><p>"Or they might have heard my communications at the ball."</p><p>That had the chance to be true, regrettably. Owen had confessed to sleeping his way into information minutes before the shooting, when they were speaking at the bar. Whoever found his location after that exchange could have very well supposed Owen's. That did not even account for what Owen might have said in private or when he was with the lady. She could have compromised him, for all they knew. It was a series of thoughts worrisome enough to make them both sick.</p><p>Curt did not want to dwell on those feelings. Not yet, at least. Not while in the comfort of Owen's bed.</p><p>So, instead of letting them consume them both, he improvised once more.</p><p>Taking Owen's cup, he set it aside and walked his fingers up his chest. Cat-like scrutiny watched Curt's fingers, following every move of their ridiculous, distracting journey. Only when they strayed beyond his collarbone did Owen finally react, grabbing them where they 'stood.' Curt held his breath, bracing for the brunt of that scrutiny.</p><p>"What do you think you're doing?"</p><p>"Trying to make you smile," he confessed, allowing some mischief and charm to seep into his tone. "Something tells me we won't be doing much of it later, and speculating was getting us nowhere, so I figured...why not try it? Was it working?"</p><p>Glancing between the fingers and Curt, Owen's indifference spoke volumes. It was further emphasized when, letting go of the offending fingers, Owen raised his brow at Curt and murmured a low, "You could do better."</p><p>Curt was happy to meet the challenge. </p><p>Throwing caution to the wind, he dove in for a kiss. It was not a total abandonment of his boundaries -- he knew anything more could push Owen too far and ruin the game. But, it was passioned. It dripped sweetness and care and something special that gave Curt butterflies. Owen seemed to appreciate it. Once the initial shock of the move passed, he melted into the kiss, resting his hand on the back of Curt's neck. They remained that way, enjoying each other's sounds and touches, until breathlessness tore them apart. Judging from the heavy breath Owen released as he laid back, Curt figured he found success. He struggled to hold back his cockiness.</p><p>"Thoughts?"</p><p>But inches away from Curt's face, Owen reached for his shirt and yanked him closer in an almost whirlwind motion. It sent Curt right back to Owen's lips, though they did not meet this time. Instead, they ghosted them, leaving room for him to feel the big, blinding, <em> beautiful </em>smile Owen happily divulged. That told Curt everything he needed to know and more. He let out something between a laugh and a gasp.</p><p>"You're ridiculous," Owen breathed, "but you make one hell of a distraction, love."</p><p>They sat in silence, grinning back at each other.</p><p>And then, Owen's alarm went off.</p><p>Releasing his grip on Curt, he reached over to the side table and hit the device. It silenced within seconds, but Owen was quick to fill it with a groan. Curt could not blame him. He wanted to stay in bed just as much as he did, if not more, to drink in the happiness of that moment. He did not want to face the hell awaiting them. However, if they wanted to remain hidden and employed, they had to listen to the alarm. They had to get up.</p><p>"Instead of pestering me, you ought to focus on preparing for Cynthia," Owen said, his hand firmly gripped by Curt's as they worked to sit him up. "She's sure to have questions."</p><p>"Yeah, well, it's pretty hard to prepare for her. There isn't exactly a manual for how to deal with bosses who yell at you."</p><p>He rolled his eyes, picturing her perfectly in his head. <em> 'Why didn't you take better care not to fuck this mission up, Mega? Scared of getting hurt again before you're healed? I once fought five men with my bare hands with a bullet in my shoulder and a twisted ankle, and you didn't hear me crying like a pathetic infant.' </em> It wouldn't surprise him if she followed that exact script later. </p><p>Owen sighed. Reaching over to Curt, he rubbed his arm in a gesture of support. "In that case, do help me prepare then? I could use a helping hand again, if you'd be so inclined."</p><p>Curt pressed his lips to Owen's. He then hopped off the bed and held out his hand, turning on the charm with a waggle of his brows. Owen barked out a laugh at it, shaking his head.</p><p>"C'mon, ol' boy. Let's get on with it."</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>"It's about time you fuckers got here."</p><p>
  <em> Cynthia Houston. </em>
</p><p>No matter how many times Curt walked into a room and saw the woman, her power never ceased to give him chills. She sat at the end of a long table, staring Curt and Owen down. Plumes of cigarette smoke surrounded her in an ominous cloud. It was intimidating at the very least. </p><p>They were gathered in an office space ten minutes outside of Fontvieille. Cynthia chose it for its seclusion from the rest of the town and lack of elaborate design. It also was minutes from an A.S.S. base, making it ideal for security reasons. Though the room was large, Cynthia effortlessly filled it with her personality. Curt had never felt smaller. He figured Owen probably felt the same. The smoke did not help it.</p><p>"You know, if I wanted my best agent to go and get himself killed, I wouldn't waste the effort on a high-profile case with foreign cooperation," she sneered. "I'd toss him with a rookie and hope nature took its course."</p><p>"Nice to see you too, Cynthia," Curt said. She rolled her eyes and took a long drag. Her smoke trail landed in the direction of Owen, who somehow managed to not cough. </p><p>"Pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Carvour. Sorry your partner is an incapable dumbass. I feel like you deserve better."</p><p>Curt could not miss the click of Owen's jaw to his right. He had forgotten how he had never witnessed the cruelty of Cynthia in action. If what he said after the ball was to be believed, she had been on her best behavior over the phone. Seeing her not be, especially with their feelings in a heightened state, had to be jarring for him. Curt wished he could reach over and squeeze his hand to assure him it was okay. </p><p>Steeling himself, Owen let his training take him over. "Pleasure's all mine, ma'am. Might you tell why we are meeting today?"</p><p>"I know you're smarter than that, Carvour." </p><p>Now, it was Curt's turn to feel displeased. Hearing Cynthia toss insults was nothing new, and he had expected them to find their way to Owen someday. He just did not expect to hear them so soon and so unprovoked. He clenched his fists behind his back.</p><p>"We're on some thin fucking ice. You two getting thrown around like rag dolls did not help our image out in the field. Maxim and his goons think you're weak. He thinks <em> we </em> are weak. Do you know what fuckery that will cause if that news gets to the Hawires?"</p><p>"A lot of paperwork?" </p><p>Cynthia's glare knocked Curt pale. "Something a little worse than that, smart ass. Think a complete loss of trust and global nuclear war. And who the <em> fuck </em> is going to aid us in one of those when they find out we had a chance to prevent it and <em> failed? </em> No one. Not a goddamn soul."</p><p>"So," Owen said, folding his arms in the face of her dramatics, "what is the plan then? I'm all for scare tactics, but I'm assuming the Hawires remain on their way and the mission still on. What are we to tell them?"</p><p>"They are, and they're not going to learn a goddamn thing from you two."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>Leaning back in her chair, Cynthia tapped out ashes from her cigarette. "Are your ears not evolved enough to hear me? The Hawires knowing anything will send us into a <em> massive </em> fuck up. No offense Owen, but I cannot trust that you will keep them the proper amount out of the blue. I sure as hell cannot trust mister gunshot wound over there."</p><p>"So we're lying?" Curt asked, brushing her off. "Like, <em> fully </em> lying?"</p><p>"It's called selectively conveying information." Blowing out more smoke, she flipped through the stack of files before her. The noise was extra loud in the closed space -- the perfect recipe for intimidation. "You should know it, Mega. I do it to you all the time. I'll do the speaking, fix this situation, and then we'll come up with where to go from there on our own, <em> away </em> from them. Understand?"</p><p>Begrudgingly, Curt nodded. Owen, however, did not provide a response. From the look of his face, pensive and brooding, it did not seem as if he was as keen about the idea as Cynthia was. In all honesty, he looked three seconds away from getting MI6 on the phone and having them take over the meeting. As he watched him have a staring match with his boss, he wondered if perhaps things <em> would </em> turn out better with MI6's lead. If Owen was not comfortable, could he be comfortable? Could he trust his boss? He felt like he could, but he had never had such major stakes on a mission. Could he trust her to be on her best game and keep them safe on a major mission?</p><p>Anxiety had mere moments to set in before a knock at the door interrupted.</p><p>The same assistant that had brought Owen and Curt into the room gestured for Jules and Veronica to enter. Jules looked as ostentatious as ever, rocking a velvety green suit and a beige hat with a cane. Veronica wore another poofy skirt, this time white, with an orange starched shirt on top. She made sure to shoot Curt a smile upon her entrance. Curt did not catch it, but Owen grew tense at his side.</p><p>"Thank you both for coming to discuss your case with us," Cynthia proclaimed as they settled in at the table. "I'm Cynthia Houston, director of the American Secret Service and boss to Agent Mega over here. We've spoken over the phone."</p><p>"Ah yes, Ms. Houston," Jules said, clasping his hands together. "I wondered when we'd meet! Thank you for taking up our case. I'm so grateful for my family's protection."</p><p>Cynthia tossed him a brief look screaming, 'be careful what you wish for,' but she did not let it sit long. It soon was replaced with a tight-lipped smile, one Curt had seen on many an uncomfortable occasion. </p><p>"It's our pleasure. Speaking of, agents Carvour and Mega have gone into the field for the past few weeks to take on your case. It has come to my attention that you should be briefed about their findings."</p><p>Jules nodded and her on with a wave of his hand. At his side, Veronica yawned, unimpressed by it all.</p><p>
  <em> Typical. </em>
</p><p>"As you are aware, Maxim's people intercepted Agent Mega at the ball."</p><p>"Oh yes, that was very upsetting." Jules pulled out a cigarette for himself, lighting it and puffing out a cloud of smoke Curt's way. "I'm very sorry, Agent." </p><p>"It's fi-"</p><p>"No time for apologies, he's on the mend." Curt shot her a glare, but she dismissed it with a tossing of her hair. "Agent Carvour also sustained injuries when investigating a weapons drop. This took place two days prior to our meeting."</p><p>"Dammit, I <em> knew </em>they used my merchandise again!" Groaning, Jules wiped at his face. "What did they do to you, boy?"</p><p>Despite feeling slightly indignant at being called 'boy,' Owen went to open his mouth. He was shut down in seconds by Cynthia, who cleared her throat, sent him a death glare, and turned to Jules. </p><p>"Mere surface wounds. Nothing serious."</p><p>Curt would like to see her call Owen's struggle to get in and out of bed without pain 'nothing serious.'</p><p>"There are no plans as of now to strip them from the mission."</p><p>"Oh thank goodness." For the first time that day, Veronica piped up. Her voice was sickeningly sweet, enough to make Curt want to gag, and her face was oddly distressed. Given how little she had cared to protect him before, her sudden care for his safety was hardly something he could feel happy about. He really did not like her. "I don't know what I would have done if you didn't make it out, Agent Mega!"</p><p><em> Almost wish I hadn't</em>, Curt thought. He heard Owen sigh.</p><p>"Anyway," Cynthia said, "we are under the impression that these men under Maxim are planning to continue their syphoning of weapons. Our next move will consist of a calculated effort to gather intel and render this process immobile. I am confident it will work, and we should have them cornered in due time."</p><p>"Thank goodness." Jules folded his hands and smiled at Cynthia, satisfied. "My recent shipment's hit to income was sustainable, but I cannot afford much more of this. It's only a few more shipments falling through before clients grow suspicious, or worse, get roped into this nonsense as well. I'm comforted to know the suffering will cease soon."</p><p>"As you should be," Cynthia affirmed. She shifted to face Veronica, narrowing in on her blissful figure with a type of calculated scrutiny. Though that had frightened Curt and perturbed Owen earlier, it did little to disturb her odd glee. "You, girl. All of this remains confidential. Got it?"</p><p>"Of course, Ms. Houston!" Veronica nodded, animatedly so, and let out another sickening giggle. "Daddy knows I would never share any of his secrets. Besides, I've got no one to tell. This stuff is hardly fun gossip around the lunch table, you know. You'd have a better chance of, oh, I don't know, some big, golden eagle swooping out of the sky and stealing me from the varsity soccer pitch before I'd tell a soul."</p><p>It was a slew of words annoying and pointless enough to make anyone groan or roll their eyes. Cynthia was mere inches from doing both, from the looks of her. Curt himself had to bite his lip not to do the former, and he <em> usually </em> could ignore stuff. Veronica changed that. She made him want to yell, or shake her out of her weird fantasy of everything being normal. </p><p>There was one reaction, though, that kept him short of risking such a move. </p><p>
  <em> Owen's. </em>
</p><p>Owen, who had been uncomfortable but attentive to the conversation, went rigid. He no longer rubbed his hands together or bounced his knee beneath the wood. He was still. Frozen. Utterly shaken.</p><p>That sent fear into Curt's veins. He had never seen Owen spooked -- troubled and frustrated, yes, but not spooked. <em> Never </em>spooked. He wondered what was going on and why he felt so out of the loop. Had he not spent more time with Veronica than Owen? How did Owen know something about her that he didn't? He would probably hear about it later, but he wished he could know sooner so he could act and ease Owen's stress. Turning to Veronica, he sent a fake smile, hoping to smooth over whatever awkwardness his partner's reaction created. </p><p>It led to Cynthia kicking him in the shin, silencing the effort before it began.</p><p>"I'd like to have another meeting in three weeks," she spoke, not entertaining Curt's pain at her right. "You two will hear from my people. In the meantime, lay low and report every incident or piece of information you witness. Understood?"</p><p>The father-daughter duo nodded. With semi-tense goodbyes, they left the room. Cynthia ushered Curt and Owen out soon after, quote, 'not wanting to be around them any longer.' It was for the best, anyway, given Owen still could hardly move -- physically <em> and </em> mentally. Curt had half a mind to confront him about it once they made it back to their car.</p><p>Owen, however, had other ideas. </p><p>As soon as they were down an empty hall, the Hawires long gone and not a soul around them, he took Curt by the shoulders and pressed him against the wall. It alarmed him, resulting in a small squeak and his breath momentarily leaving him, but nothing was more alarming than the look in Owen's eyes. It was fierce. Scary. Exactly what he expected made him such a successful spy.</p><p>"She knows," he mumbled, his eyes frantically scanning the hall and dodging Curt's. "Fuck, Curt, she <em> knows.</em>"</p><p>"W-What are you talking about?"</p><p>"Veronica," Owen stressed, shoving him a bit tighter against the sheetrock. "Curt, she said something. Something damning. There's no way she would know to say it unless she was there. Fuck," he let go of Curt's shirt, choosing instead to shove his hands into his hair, "she knows everything!"</p><p>"Owen, you're scaring me."</p><p>"Yeah, well, you should be scared," he snapped. Curt frowned. He had never been that short with him before, and he was not sure he liked that. But, he also was not sure if there was a reason for it. He needed more information.</p><p>"What did she say?"</p><p>"Golden eagle." Owen yanked his hands from his hair, moving them to instead rest in his pockets. "I-I thought it was not necessary to tell MI6 when I briefed them. I was so wrong."</p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"That's the name of the mission...o-or the group..whatever Maxim has planned!"</p><p>"You're sure?"</p><p>"He said it at the drop," Owen mumbled, eyes wide. "I thought he was speaking in platitudes, Curt, but I could not have been more wrong. It...it was a calling card, of some sorts. It means something. She would not have known about it if she were not there or in cahoots with him."</p><p>"So you think...<em> she </em> is the mole? The one who leaked locations?"</p><p>Looking around again, Owen nodded. "She was with you at the ball. She could have watched you or put a tracker on you in order to shuttle coordinates to Maxim's guy. If she did, she would have heard my comment about the drop and inferred I'd be there."</p><p>Curt felt sick. </p><p>"We have to go back and tell Cynthia."</p><p>"No," Owen said firmly, yanking him back in place, "she cannot know any of this, Curt."</p><p>"And why not?" Curt protested, pulling his arm away with a scowl. "She's my boss, Owen. I need to tell her what is going on."</p><p>"She could be compromised."</p><p>
  <em> "Oh." </em>
</p><p>"If Maxim and Veronica think we are going forth with one mission, and we go forth with another, we might be able to subvert their plans and ambush them," he explained. "Cynthia was correct, they think we are weak. Getting ahead of them like that recaptures that power. We could be powerful, if we play our cards right."</p><p>Curt bit his lip. "I don't know, Owe. What if our governments don't approve? It's basically treason. They could kill us."</p><p>"Curt, you trust me, right?"</p><p>Curt's eyes fluttered shut. "Yes, of course Owen, but-"</p><p>"Then you know it'll work out," he said, matter-of-fact. Stepping farther back, he scanned Curt's frazzled appearance. Whatever he saw must have been quite a sight, for his face softened in an instant. With one more gaze around them, he took a step forward and brought Curt's hand into his. Like Curt had wanted to do earlier, he gave it a squeeze.</p><p>"It will work. I promise."</p><p>Reopening his eyes, Curt let out a deep breath and stared down the hall.</p><p>"Let's get to it, then."</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>"Curt, may I come in?"</p><p>Eyes blown wide, Curt stared at the door. After a long ride to the safe house, he had went into relative isolation. It was for the best, despite his wishes to find comfort through Owen. He knew he would only make things worse around him if he remained, though. His anxiety over betraying Cynthia, over going somewhat rogue, was driving him up a wall. Owen did not need to see that. </p><p>So, Curt hid. </p><p>Isolation first consisted of faking a nap. Napping was the only way that he could receive privacy without judgement, he figured, and it did the trick. Owen did not interrupt him. After his nap, he had decided to take a shower. The shower soon turned into a bath upon realization of the beautiful bath in the corner of the room. A soak with his frazzled nerves in mind sounded too lovely to pass up. Bubbles dispersed and candles lit, Curt had settled into the warm water and let his mind rest.</p><p>That was when Owen found him.</p><p>"Owen?"</p><p>"Please, Curt, you know it's me. May I come in?"</p><p>Swallowing, he looked to the door. He could not imagine a more precarious situation if he tried. Not only was he trying to decompress, but also he was <em> very much </em> naked. The bubbles still were around, but still. He was vulnerable. Not letting Owen in and possibly harming his trust or emotions was not something he wanted to happen, though. Plus, on a less serious note, Owen being there meant he had traveled down the stairs on his own to see him. That was big. He wanted to reward that, no matter what was going on. So, against his worries, he piped up and let Owen know he could come in.</p><p>The breath Owen let out upon seeing him sent a warmth through Curt's chest that made him grateful for the bubbles’ existence.</p><p>"I'm not interrupting, am I?"</p><p>Blushing, Curt shook his head. "Just relaxing. Is everything okay?"</p><p>"Yeah." Owen took a hesitant step forward, eyes not leaving him. "I just...I wanted to check on you. I realize I asked a lot of you back there."</p><p>"I'm how you'd expect, I suppose. Slightly conflicted. Excited at the prospect. Hating Veronica."</p><p>"She won't get away with whatever she's planning," he said, shutting the door behind him. He walked forward through the room until he  stood at the edge of the bath, close enough to touch. In the low lighting, he was a sight to behold. "I promise you, Curt. She won't. You see, I was reviewing papers and our past movements, and I've come up with a few potential ways we can disrupt her before Maxim can use her for more info-"</p><p>"Can we drop that for now?" Seeing Owen blink owlishly, Curt sighed and reached for his hand. "Sorry, I'm just...I don't want to think about it right now. I want to have that conversation, and I want to hear your ideas, but right now...right here...I just..."</p><p>"You want a distraction," Owen finished. Looking into his warm eyes, Curt nodded, sighing.</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, I do."</p><p>With gentle hesitation, Owen brought Curt's hand in his up to his lips. A soft kiss met each one of his knuckles, slowly placed with adoration each time. Curt watched in amusement. He reveled in the feeling, in the sudden shift in Owen from spy to man he cared for. He felt the stress of their situation peel away with each kiss, and in the end when Owen finished his ministrations with a kiss to his lips? Well, the world might as well have melted away. Curt breathed into the kiss, content.</p><p>"Thoughts?" Owen echoed, moving seconds later to kiss down Curt's jawline. Drowning in the feeling, Curt tilted his head and wrapped his arm around Owen, not caring about wetting his back. </p><p>"I-I'm not yet impressed."</p><p>A dark chuckle left Owen. </p><p>
  <em> Please, let his plan work. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Some Things Change, Some Stay The Same</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>With new revelations, Curt tries to figure out how to get Owen to relax. Meanwhile, the repercussions of one's actions finally come to light.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*taps mic* HI EVERYONE! I am back! I know it has been eons since I last updated (October, I think???) and I sincerely apologize. Not only did life get super stressful, but also I hit the w o r s t writer's block I have ever faced in my life. I felt so lost and lost my direction for this, and I didn't want to put out something bad for the sake of an update. So, I took time away, worked really hard to fix things, and came back with a fully detailed plan of the rest of the chapters &amp; a brighter outlook on writing. I hope it wasn't too long of a break for some of you. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and I do hope I still can hear thoughts from yall who used to read this so diligently. They seriously are what motivated me to push through everything. &lt;3</p><p>As always, do enjoy the heck out of this (it's a spicy &amp; sweet chapter!). Please comment if you enjoyed this or if you just want to check in and say hi, I'm super happy with either :) Much love to you!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Any progress?"</p><p>Owen jumped and clutched his forehead. For the past five days, the spy had hardly moved. Aside from toiling away at his desk over sheet after sheet of information -- both MI6 and A.S.S. in origin -- Curt was unsure he had done much of anything. He looked about as much. His shirt was disheveled, his eyes were red. He was in his own world, dedicated to figuring our their next moves come hell or high water. As nice as that was, Curt knew it was not sustainable. He knew he had to intervene. </p><p>"Oh, Curt. I'd have thought you'd have busied yourself by now, love." </p><p>Curt had, at least for a bit. He stayed in his lane, only checking in with Owen if it was absolutely necessary for things like dinner. This was not to say he did not work on the case, though. On the contrary, Veronica's potential betrayal lingered with him. He sat in his solitude dictating entire plans on how to deal with her moving forward and evade Cynthia in the process. But, that could only feed his mind for so long. He eventually needed to see if his partner was okay, and that time had come.</p><p>Leaning against the doorframe, he masked his concern with a carefully placed smile.</p><p>"I can only watch so much television before I start to wonder if you're still breathing, ol' boy. Still running through scenarios?"</p><p>Curt already knew that answer. Owen could be deceptive at times, but a near week of silence spoke volumes. His parting words the morning after Curt's bath of "off to plot" said a lot, too. Still, Curt wanted to ask. It was polite to ask. It also could continue discussion.</p><p>"MI6 heard from Cynthia today," he said as he leaned back into his seat, tugging at his hair. "We're to conduct another undercover operation soon. They both agreed we can't successfully dismantle Maxim's work unless we can understand its complete scope."</p><p>"Makes sense."</p><p>"It makes sense, but it's passive. The more we dance around collecting information, the more time they have to plot and position themselves for an ambush. We're becoming vulnerable."</p><p>Walking over to sit on the edge of Owen's bed, Curt chewed at the inside of his cheek. "Well, it's not exactly like our teams know our 'delicate daddy's girl' is actually Satan, or like we can let them know. They're doing their best."</p><p>"Which is why it is imperative that we have a foolproof and comprehensive plan of our own, and why I won't stop until we do."</p><p>Sighing, Curt grabbed one of Owen's pillows into his chest and rested his head on top. "Surely you could pause for a bit, don't you think?"</p><p>The seconds of silence he received in response droned on for hours, it seemed. Eventually, Owen swiveled back to face his desk. </p><p>"Complacency is not an option, Curt."</p><p>"I'm not saying we have to bend over and take whatever failure is coming to us," he stressed, tossing the pillow aside. "But Owe, let's face it, this...this constant working and worrying can't be good. You need to rest, and I need to see you."</p><p>That at least earned a thoughtful pause. "Just because we are an item now does not mean our mission ends, Curt. Also, I am an adult. I know my body and when it needs to rest, and I'd like to believe you would value my judgement."</p><p>Reaching out, Curt took hold of a shoulder and spun Owen around. He knew it was a risky move with Owen's mind so fiery, but he felt bold. Placing his other hand on the other shoulder, he stared him down. </p><p>"If you knew that, you'd see yourself and know rest was something you needed a <em> long </em> time ago."</p><p>"Someone has to do this, Curt. I don't see you contributing anything."</p><p>"I've asked to help you all week," he bit back. "Repeatedly, when I came up to see you. But, you wanted your space to work and I respected that. I went and plotted away from you, just as you wanted. Look where that's gotten you. Where that's gotten us."</p><p>"Curt-"</p><p>"If Maxim and Veronica burn the world down overnight, then you have full permission to shoot me point-blank range in the chest and say you told me so. Right now, though?" Curt released Owen's shoulders, adding a gentle shove to them for good measure. "Your boyfriend is lonely and wants to make sure you don't die from overworking and stressing yourself out. Can he do that for a day?"</p><p>Owen released a heavy sigh. Curt was near certain that that meant he had failed, that Owen had had enough with his pestering. But, for as much as he knew Owen, he was not privy to how he acted in the role of boyfriend. Boyfriend Owen had tricks up his sleeve, tricks which compelled him to act against his better judgement. </p><p>A soft 'okay' filled the air, sending Curt's heart soaring and his mind relaxing. Within seconds, his arms were around Owen.</p><p>"Thank you," he whispered, burying his head in the crook of his neck. </p><p>Eyes falling shut, Owen let out another sigh and held Curt a fraction tighter. </p><p>"Thank <em> you.</em>"</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>"This is a bad idea."</p><p>"Oh c'mon, it'll be fun!"</p><p>"Until we get caught."</p><p>Curt had his hands in Owen's, slowly walking him toward their safe house's back door. Unlike most of their safe houses, this house had a pool. A <em> nice </em> pool. A nice pool that was relatively enclosed, hidden from neighboring homes by a fence, lit up at night, and about as perfect for a secret swim as it could get. Was it a risk to indulge in its charms? Of course. Anytime they went outside was a risk. But, Curt was feeling risky -- <em> needy </em> and risky. He wanted to bend the rules, give Owen a night he could remember when he went back to work, and give himself something happy to dream about in the weeks to come. </p><p>So, throwing caution to the wind, he continued to walk Owen forward.</p><p>"No one will know," he assured. "Our communicators are packed away in boxes and shut off. The pool's hidden. We've checked for bugs. It'll be <em> dark </em> soon."</p><p>"Still-"</p><p>"Owen?" Curt squeezed his hands. "We'll be okay. Trust me."</p><p>Owen's trust was questionable as he followed Curt out the door, but he did not say another word. He let Curt guide him to the pool's steps and tried his best to get his mind off of the danger they might be in for Curt's sake. Curt undoing his shirt for him helped with that. It helped Curt rest easier about what he was doing, too. </p><p>Anxiety had no place in a brain preoccupied by a shirtless boyfriend.</p><p>He felt his cheeks blaze red.</p><p>"In too deep, my boy?"</p><p>"I...no, I'm uh," sputtered Curt, recoiling and leaving Owen's unbuttoned shirt loosely hanging. "I'm f-<em>fine</em>. Very fine. Totally. Completely."</p><p>Though his voice remained even, mischief overtook Owen's eyes. No amount of backtracking could hide how quickly Curt's demeanor changed, and Owen knew he had to capitalize on it before he recovered and the attention turned back on him. To Curt's misfortune, it was something he was all-too-capable of doing. </p><p>Reaching to mess with the hem of Curt's shirt, Owen gazed down at him with hooded eyes.</p><p>"Is that so, darling?"</p><p>The softer pet name, coupled with the lower tone of his voice, melted Curt's resolve like kryptonite. Despite his best efforts, he whimpered in reply. It turned Owen positively wicked.</p><p>"If I had known getting rid of my shirt and calling you darling was all it took, I would've done it earlier."</p><p>That flustered Curt even more. He could no longer look at Owen, fearing how he would react if he looked into those menacing eyes of his. Owen could bend his will to do just about anything like this. He did not dare risk it. Noting his reluctance, Owen tutted and fully shedded his shirt. Curt watched in muted alarm as it fell all-too-slowly to their feet. </p><p>"Just having a little fun with you, Curtis."</p><p>"Haha, yeah," he mumbled, eyes never leaving that shirt. It took the sound of Owen slipping into the water to break him out of his spell. One look graced Curt with the sight of that mop of chestnut hair he loved disappearing into the dark blue water, granting him momentary relief. Then again, Owen resurfacing with wet hair was not exactly something he could calm down about. If anything, it made things worse.</p><p>The semi-sleepy, content gaze Owen sent him once the chlorine was wiped from his eyes did little to help, too.</p><p>Curt let out a shaky breath.</p><p>"Am I the only one swimming tonight?"</p><p>Owen could not have paid him to make such a statement true. Stripping in seconds, Curt charged into the pool like a bull to a matador's cape. He splashed water every-which-way around him, nearly hitting Owen's face with the recklessness of it all. It earned him a scornful look, but Curt knew it was only for show. </p><p>Brushing the hair from his eyes, he chuckled and averted his gaze away from it.</p><p>"I can't remember the last time I got to do this. Swim, I mean."</p><p>It was not the smartest or most eloquent of conversation starters, but it was the best Curt could do while under Owen's teasing scrutiny. Intrigued enough, Owen bit.</p><p>"Do they not test your aquatic skills in the states?"</p><p>"I count that as practice," Curt smiled. He lacked in a few talents, but swimming was not one of them. Cynthia likened him to a fish -- a dumb one, but a fish nevertheless. He took it as a win. "When I say swim, I'm talking about doing so with no endgame, no monitoring. It's kinda nice, don't ya think?"</p><p>"I could be persuaded as much."</p><p>Swimming forward, Owen closed the distance between them. They stood about a foot from each other now -- Curt facing the setting sun, Owen crowded by the growing darkness. Both were incredible sights for different reasons. Both caused the tension that sat between them to increase.</p><p>Curt's stomach fluttered, anticipating where it might go.</p><p>"Admittedly love, casual swims are not common for me." Absent minded, Owen placed a hand at the crook of Curt's neck and began to stroke the soft skin there in a beyond distracting fashion. Curt marveled that Owen could even continue speaking, it was such a sensual motion. He stared on in awe. "English weather works against it, and I struggle to find a reason for them. Though, having you join me might be reason enough."</p><p>Curt swallowed. "Y-Yeah."</p><p>"You'd like that, yes?"</p><p>The distance between them closed within seconds, providing all the answers Owen needed. </p><p>This kiss was far from their first, but the intensity behind it was new. Exciting. Thrilling. Be it a symptom of whatever teasing game Owen was at or the relieving of the week's tension, it consumed the two in a fit of passion they had not yet experienced. Though Owen was gentle with his touch, hand remaining on his neck, he kissed Curt like a man on a mission. He provided an urgency and a hunger for something unexplainable but entirely intriguing that had Curt melting into his touch. Curt found it intoxicating. Without thought, he gravitated closer to Owen, his subconscious wanting more.</p><p>Kisses like this were rare for him. If he were being honest with himself, he could count on one hand the few he imagined came close to this one, and those did not even use up all fingers. There simply were not loads of people <em> wanting </em> to kiss him this way. No one had wanted to, in fact, for a solid three years prior to this kiss. It made it somewhat special for Curt, especially in the moment. </p><p>It was what led to him taking a leap and wrapping his arms around Owen's waist, closing any remaining distance in an instant. </p><p>To say Owen was taken back by the sudden intensity and proximity of Curt would have been an understatement. He made a surprised noise through their kiss and rocked back on his heels, nearly causing the two to stumble and fall beneath the water's surface. But, ever the adaptive man he was, he was quick to adjust. </p><p>Adjusting began with recapturing his hold of Curt.</p><p>Curt's hand on his waist was soon enveloped by Owen's larger one. Heavy and hot to his skin like fire, it secured him in place and urged Curt to not doubt his new boldness with a firm grasp. His other hand, escaping its hold of Curt's neck, moved to the curve of his back. There, his thumb resumed its gentle caressing of his skin. Curt wanted to lean into it. He would have, had Owen's lips not been a more enticing option.</p><p>He was not sure when or how it happened, but Curt eventually felt his back press against the side of the pool. It was a rather abrupt sensation, shifting to this new position in the midst of an intoxicating make-out session. The abrasiveness of concrete hardly held a candle to the softness of Owen's touch. Losing one for the other momentarily took Curt out of it. He almost stopped their actions to complain.</p><p>Any complaints died, however, when the realization of how much better Owen was able to kiss because of it hit him. <em> Gosh </em>, it was overwhelming. Being pinned to the pool's edge and giving up most control of the moment to Owen was overwhelming. Curt loved every second of it. He would take another year of Owen ignoring him to follow a mission's trail if it meant coming back to sensations like this. Unable to help himself, he moaned into the feeling. Hearing Owen let out a noise of his own, Curt felt boldness take him over. He reached up, carded a hand through Owen's hair, and spoke two words he, for a long time at least, believed would exist only in his dreams.</p><p>
  <em> "Fuck, Owen." </em>
</p><p>He could have never predicted the effect they would have on Owen.</p><p>As quick and passionate as Owen had been to latch onto Curt, he was gone. Hands off, lips detached, he transitioned from lover to stranger in seconds. A cold, distant stranger. </p><p>It was enough to give Curt whiplash.</p><p>He stared on, shocked and somewhat in disbelief, as Owen increased the distance between them. Had he done something wrong? He didn't think so, at least. Heck, Owen had been the one intensifying things. If anyone had taken things further to a point of contention, it had been him. But what had been done worth contention? Was what he said really so troubling? </p><p>In his mad scramble to justify what was happening, Curt wondered if perhaps Owen's actions had nothing to do with him. Though the pool was hidden well, there was always the chance someone had found them. The last time Curt had seen Owen so spooked was when he found out they were compromised, so what stood to say this was not a reaction to something similar? It was not like they had been quiet. It could have been the case.</p><p>The look in his eyes, though, pointed to something deeper going on. </p><p>Owen was panicked, and it was not a panic he looked able to hide. It was a panic rooted heavily in something he could not escape and had not been able to handle. The longer it went on, the longer Curt's shock morphed into concern. </p><p>"Owen?"</p><p>Curt's voice seemed to cut through the panic. Owen blinked at him -- not in his direction, but at him. It was as if he was confused and coming to terms with the reality of his situation all at once. When it seemed his mind began to settle, a harsher, more vulnerable emotion took confusion's place. Owen hid into himself, fidgeting with his hands. Seconds later, he looked everywhere besides Curt and stuttered out a reply.</p><p>"You did nothing wrong. I-I swear."</p><p>"You look like you just stared down the barrel of a gun. How am I supposed to believe that?"</p><p>"No, seriously. I just," he huffed in frustration, clutching at his head. "It's...I wasn't...I didn't expect..."</p><p>"Use your words, Owe."</p><p>"It's...it's been a <em> while</em>."</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>Oh, that made so much sense.</p><p>This was a <em> Sam </em> thing. </p><p>A Sam thing Curt had not only triggered, but urged on. </p><p>There had been no way for him to have known. Still, Curt felt guilt twinge horribly in his chest as he stared at Owen. He should have guessed that he would be sensitive to such an intimate moment. The last person who might have done anything with him<em> that </em> meaningful would have been Sam. Coming to terms with that, especially for the first time, did not seem like something Owen or anyone really could be prepared for -- at least, not in the heat of passion. Curt could have kicked himself. Typical Agent Mega, not thinking before acting, causing people pain. He lowered his head.</p><p>"God, Owen, I'm so sorry."</p><p>"No, don't apologize, Curt," he said pointedly, daring to look at him. "It's my issue."</p><p>"Which makes it mine, too! Please, if there's anything I can do-"</p><p>"Just DROP IT!"</p><p>As soon as it was said, Curt could tell that Owen regretted it. Still, he could not stop himself from recoiling, from letting out a gasp. The realization of that, that he caused such a reaction out of Curt, looked to be the straw that broke him. Within seconds, Owen was snatching a towel and running out of the pool. Curt on instinct ran out after him.</p><p>"Owen, hey, wait!"</p><p>"Please Curt, I don't want to do you more harm."</p><p>"Running away and hiding again isn't going to help that," he panted, locking eyes with Owen. Owen allowed his eyes to linger for a beat before turning away, shutting his eyes altogether. </p><p>"I didn't think that that would happen."</p><p>"You didn't have to."</p><p>"Yes I did," he stressed. "Any good spy knows their limits. Their...their <em> weaknesses </em>. I should have known."</p><p>Curt shook his head. "It's not weak to still be hurting, Owen. Sam...he meant something to you. You can't know when you'll remember that."</p><p>"I'm not getting into this with you."</p><p>"<em> If we do not have constant communication, it will be our downfall</em>." Curt watched Owen turn on his heels and wipe the dripping hair away from his eyes. He cleared his throat, hoping to remain firm. "You told me that day one, remember? I know it was more for spy stuff and not like, <em> sex</em>," he paused, forcing back a shiver at the word, "a-and I know it might not be comfy to do, but I'm invoking it. I want you to talk to me."</p><p>Owen sighed. "I have no choice in this, do I?"</p><p>Shrugging, Curt looked to Owen's staircase. "You do, but I'll tell ya' right now that that one you're thinking of won't make things better any time soon."</p><p>Owen glared. Curt placed his towel on the couch and sat on it, adding a pat for good measure. </p><p>
  <em> "Talk to me." </em>
</p><p>Owen stared back, reluctant. However, he eventually took Curt's invitation. Sitting at his side, he was met with his hand, outstretched for him to take, waiting. Though his hesitation still persisted, and his refusal to meet Curt's eye returned, he accepted it. He slid his hand into his, and when Curt rewarded it with a small squeeze, Owen gave the smallest of squeezes back. It comforted Curt.</p><p>"You reminded me of him." Curt began to rub his thumb along Owen's hand. A return of comfort. "I thought I was fine but...but I remembered, and I couldn't stop, and I tried to ignore it but then you <em> spoke </em> and I just...I wasn't strong enough to get past that."</p><p>"Bullshit, Owe. You're so strong."</p><p>"If that was true, I'd have not buggered up the whole night," he snapped, sighing heavy as he hung his head. Curt let him sit there, fighting whatever mental war he was fighting, before squeezing his hand once more. This time, instead of waiting for Owen to return the pressure, he stood. Owen looked up at him, confused at the absence at his side.</p><p>"What are you doing?"</p><p>"Dance with me."</p><p>"I'm sorry?"</p><p>"Dance with me," Curt repeated, giving a gentle tug at Owen's arm. "Come on, don't make me pull you."</p><p>"You just berated me the length of Monte Carlo for not speaking to you, and now you wish to dance? What are you talking about?"</p><p>"I know what I'm doing Owen, trust me. Come dance."</p><p>If Owen had been skeptical before, he <em> really </em> was as he stood. Regardless of his scrutiny, Curt was quick to place his hands where they should be on his waist and shoulder and get them moving. In complete silence, in the small space between their couch and their coffee table, they began to sway. Back and forth, back and forth. Eventually, Curt closed the distance between them and rested his head on Owen's shoulder. He felt Owen flinch at first, but the dance continued. They let it continue, even as the air around them grew cold from the remaining water on them. It was not until Curt heard Owen sigh, small and content, that he decided to put it on pause and break the silence.</p><p>"Want to know what I just did there?"</p><p>"Do enlighten me."</p><p>"I let you take the lead," he softly spoke. "Once you agreed to the idea, I let <em> you </em> guide us."</p><p>"You've lost me, Curt."</p><p>"Strength comes from control, yeah? Cynthia told me that a long time ago. Well, you taking the lead just now meant<em> you </em> were in control."</p><p>"And?" </p><p>"And," Curt said, poking at Owen's chest, "that can be used for other things. Other things like what we were doing earlier, for example. Next time something like that comes up, <em> whatever </em> it might be and whenever you're comfortable with it again, I'm going to let you 'lead,' so to speak. That way, if there is any doubt at all at how you may react, you have control of what happens. You can feel <em> safe</em>."</p><p>Owen stared at him as if he were a gem. It made Curt's heart flutter, but he tried to remain calm. Calmness paid off, for a few moments later, Owen's lips found his. </p><p><em> Wow</em>, it felt good to feel them again.</p><p>Curt pulled away first. "I take it you liked that idea?"</p><p>The ghost of a smile flashed across Owen's face. "Once again, you prove liking and trusting you to not be the worst of my choices."</p><p>"So yes?"</p><p>Owen pushed at Curt's chest. They shared a grin.</p><p>"Yes, you idiot. Thank you. I don't deserve it."</p><p>"Hey, listen, I made you a promise today to give you a good distraction from all the shit going on in the case, right? Well," Curt reached up to fix Owen's hair, "first try was a bust, so I found another way. Probably would've been better had we had music, but I don't think there's a player anywhere. Had to try, though."</p><p>"Hmm."</p><p>"I've got even more in mind, if you'll humor me." Seeing Owen raise a brow, Curt panicked. "I-It's nothing too wild, I promise! God, the last thing I'd want is to do that. I was just thinking I'd make us dinner for a change? And we could watch late night programs until we fall asleep? Probably not here, of course. There's far too much water. BUT maybe my room? O-Or yours if you'd feel better there? Mine is a change of scenery, but maybe the familiarity will make you feel better-"</p><p>"Curt?"</p><p>Snapping out of his thoughts, Curt took a breath. "Yeah?"</p><p>"Dinner and shows in your room sounds <em> perfect</em>." Owen placed a kiss to his forehead. "I'd be delighted to share the night with you, love."</p><p> "Really?"</p><p>"Really," he affirmed. "So long as you leave the kitchen in one piece, of course."</p><p>
  <em> "Hey!" </em>
</p><p>Laughing, Owen kissed him once more. "Off you go, darling."</p><p>And off he went.</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>Twenty miles away, in a dark, wood-paneled facility, two baby pink heels clicked down a winding hallway. Click, click, click, they made their way down to the most illuminated of doors in the hall. It had a gold gem where a peephole would be and a darker finish than the rest. It sounded deeper, <em> richer </em> than others as well with each knock upon it. It was as if it knew what it contained was important and worthy of nothing less.  </p><p>After thirty seconds of knocking, a thick Russian voice compelled the owner of the baby pink heels to enter. When they did, the clicking did not last long. The heels traveled in only far enough to miss the swinging shut of the large wooden door. They would not dare venture any closer, lest they meet the desk of the room's owner: Maxim Lebedev. </p><p>He peered up from under his pitch-black hat. </p><p>"Do you wish for us to die, pet?"</p><p>"What? No, no I would never-"</p><p>"Your words are cheaper than the extensions your mother uses in her hair," he sneered, slamming the desk with his hand. "When a snake is readying itself to strike you, do you sit there and tell it where it will wound you the most? Do you guide it to a vein and instruct it to bite?"</p><p>"No, why would I-"</p><p>"Then <em> why</em>," he yelled, "would you let the most identifying feature of our organization fall into the hands of <em> Owen fucking Carvour? </em>"</p><p>"He doesn't know anything!"</p><p>Maxim scoffed and leaned back in his chair. "I'd believe you if you said that about Mega. Saying that about Agent Carvour, though, the best spy out there, makes me want to plant a pretty little bullet into your pretty little face, it's so stupid."</p><p>"All I said was-"</p><p>"All you <em> said </em> was our name, something he heard <em> pretty fucking clear </em> come from <em> my </em>lips at the docks." Maxim laughed. "You might as well have given him my exact coordinates! Or yours, for that matter! You're not safe anymore."</p><p>"Ha, Owen wouldn't hurt me."</p><p>"He would gun you down with glee to protect his country," he growled, standing from his desk. "He has much less of a conscience than your little crush, Agent Mega, and he has far stronger a motive to attack. If we go down, <em> you </em> go down with us. So, congrats. You've screwed us all. Especially if he's severed their communicators for good. We'll never see them coming."</p><p>"I...I can fix this! Please, let me try!"</p><p>"Oh, you have no choice but to try. You got us into this mess, and I'm not letting you get away from it before you can get us out."</p><p>"I-I won't let you down, Maxim. I promise. I'll get them off our tail. You won't be disappointed!"</p><p>With a flick of his wrist, Maxim sat down and sent the baby pink heels clicking back away from him. Before they fully left, however, he snapped his fingers and ushered them back. When they stalled, he gave another lethal glare from beneath his hat.</p><p>"Oh, and Veronica? </p><p>She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir?"</p><p>"One more screw up, and I won't hesitate with that bullet. I could give a shit if you're young."</p><p>With a small nod, baby pink heels exited the room. Leaning back in his chair, Maxim deeply sighed. He lit a cigarette.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Pause For Dramatic Effect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After days of secrecy, Curt finally learns what Owen has been planning. The stage gets set for our spies' biggest mission yet.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After weeks of revising and editing, and revising and editing some more (shout out to the perfectionist in me), I finally am back with the next chapter! This is somewhat of a filler(?) chapter on first glance, but I promise it is crucial stuff. Let's just say, things are about to get //wild//. As always, I appreciate all of your feedback so much &lt;3 Please enjoy!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Curtis? Anyone here?"</p><p></p><div class="">
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    <p>Two sets of eyes opened wide in the safe house.</p>
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    <p><span class="hardreadability"> Barb Larvernor, tentative friend and longtime A.S.S. coworker, sat </span> <span class="adverb"> unexpectedly </span> <span class="hardreadability"> at their doorstep </span> . At any other time, on any other day, she might have been welcome. Anticipated. Cheered. Curt and Owen trusted Barb. They still <em>could</em> trust Barb, though the A.S.S. was semi-compromised. She would <span class="adverb"> undoubtedly </span> do anything they asked, <em>hide</em> anything they asked, if Curt implored her to do so. She cared about them too much not to -- well, <em>Curt</em> too much not to.</p>
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    <p><span class="complexword"> However</span>, she was much less welcome on that pre-dawn morning. <span class="hardreadability"> That morning, days after their pool excursion, Curt and Owen were not </span> <span class="qualifier"> just </span> <span class="hardreadability"> in Owen's bed and not </span> <span class="qualifier"> just </span> <span class="hardreadability"> in each other's arms as they had been that night</span>. They were <em>in</em> Owen's bed, <em>in</em> each other's arms, and <em>only</em> in their pajama bottoms.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>Needless to say, they were in no position to entertain visitors.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>To make matters worse, their visitor was not one who waited to <span class="passivevoice"> be entertained</span>. Seconds after receiving no response, Barb went into autopilot. She snagged a spare key, unlocked the door, and navigated the entire house in search of her spy friends. Like a hound on a scent, she stopped at nothing until she got an answer. Unfortunately for the spies involved, that answer led her right to where they slept. Or, rather, <em>had</em> slept.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The prospect of <span class="passivevoice"> being caught </span> in an illegal act did wonders to jolt one into consciousness.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt's brain, bless him, was not accustomed to an early morning. He was a creature of the night, and when he did not receive enough sleep to compensate for it, he was useless. This proved dangerous as he tried to round the corner to Owen's closet, feet slipping on the wooden floor. He was able to save himself from tripping over his feet, but his mind was not prepared to then avoid the doorframe. He hit it with a bang. It was a blessing Owen was too preoccupied to notice. He deserved a good laugh at that one.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Speaking of Owen, he proved to be the opposite of Curt. He worked quick regardless of circumstances. <span class="hardreadability"> His hands dug into the nearest drawer of his dresser and tossed Curt whatever he could find -- once the other spy recovered, of course</span>. This landed Curt a pair of grey slacks that <span class="adverb"> undoubtedly </span> would be too long and <span class="qualifier"> possibly </span> too tight, but would do. Owen <span class="passivevoice"> was satisfied </span> with 'would do.' As he sprinted to the bathroom, he reckoned Barb would be as well.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>As great as 'would do' sounded, it hinged on Curt actually <em>doing</em>. That was easier said than done. His feet kept getting caught on Owen's pants as he tried to slip them on, causing him to become a stumbling mess. <span class="hardreadability"> He ended up jumping so much in his failure to make progress that Barb called his name again, this time with more concern </span>. Curt wondered if it was a blessing or a curse on them all to not respond. One shush from Owen across the room told him told him it was the former.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen was lucky, <span class="adverb"> busily </span> working in the bathroom. He had the benefit of the doubt on his side with his looks, as he was in <em>his</em> room. One did not need proper attire in their room. One did not need to look <em>awake</em> in their room. Would it be suspicious that he did not think to put pants over his boxers when Curt came to visit? <span class="adverb"> Slightly</span>. <span class="veryhardreadability"> But, given putting on pants or fixing his hair -- which Curt had </span> <span class="adverb"> thoroughly </span> <span class="veryhardreadability"> messed up the night before -- would take up time he did not have, he figured leaving it was fine</span>. He could explain clothes away <span class="adverb"> easily</span>. Hair, not so much.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Barb knocked seconds later.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Agent Carvour? Are you in there?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The two exchanged a tense glance across the room.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "One second, Barb dear," he called, turning his attention back to his poor, struggling boyfriend</span>. Curt looked incapable of pushing his arm into his sleeve in his current state. While it was a cute sight to see him so flustered, it was far from productive to let continue for so long. Owen had to intervene.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Mustering up his stealth, he crossed the room in near silence and snatched the sleeve for himself. Curt stared at him, panicked.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What do I say?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "Claim you needed to borrow something," he ordered under hushed breath, pushing Curt's arm through</span>. "Anything."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Is everything okay?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Yes, dear." Goodness, Owen could put on charm under pressure. No wonder he worked his way up in MI6 -- the man was inhuman under it. Curt stared at him, transfixed, as his nimble hands straightened out his shirt. "I promise you, it will be but one moment more."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What if she smells you on me?" Curt whispered. He sounded crazed.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen, moved on to fixing Curt's hair, rolled his eyes. "You're wearing my clothes. She should. <span class="hardreadability"> And if she has somehow obtained the smelling capabilities of a hound overnight to decipher beyond that, I'll distract her</span>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"But what if-"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Rushed lips met his. "You've got this. <span class="qualifier"> Just </span> play along."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p><span class="hardreadability">Curt wondered to himself how one </span> <span class="passivevoice"> was supposed </span> <span class="hardreadability"> to play along with <em>anything</em> after kissing those lips</span>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>That thought died as soon as Owen crossed the room and opened the door. Barb, bless her heart, was <span class="adverb"> understandably </span> frazzled as she entered the scene. Her wide eyes looked between the two of them with the panic of a mother searching for her child in a grocery store. She was a mess. An overwhelmed, flustered, blushing mess.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Her hands flew to cover her eyes the second her brain restarted. To their displeasure, this came accompanied with a sharp squeak. Curt suppressed the need to cover his ears.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Oh goodness, Agent Carvour! I am so sorry!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen shook his head, his formal mask slipping into place. "No apology necessary, dear. You <span class="adverb"> merely </span> caught me dressing for the day."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"A-And me asking to borrow some shaving cream." Curt chimed in <span class="complexword"> in an effort to </span> help the situation, but one glare from Owen confirmed he, in fact, did <em>not</em>. He sunk to the side to avoid his gaze. Owen <span class="adverb"> gently </span> shook his head.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Well, w-when you do that, I have a few weapons and some high-tech gear for you two in my car," Barb announced. "Courtesy of your agencies, actually. They wanted you equipped before the next mission."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Splendid, Barbara," Owen said, though Curt could tell he <span class="adverb"> really </span> could not care otherwise. "Why don't you be a dear and start bringing it all inside? Curt and I will join you as soon as we are more presentable."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Barb blushed at Owen in a way that made Curt's sleepy brain jealous -- for no reason, he reminded himself -- and shook her head. "I would love to, but it's too heavy. It's well over a month's supply. Peter and Randall, the guards who helped me in the lab last night, tried and <span class="adverb"> nearly </span> broke their backs."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I'll get it then!" Owen pivoted to Curt, brow raised. Was he <span class="adverb"> seriously </span> willing to risk his back before one of their most pivotal missions? "Yeah! Yeah, I'll do that and you can wait here while Owen finishes...dressing."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What about the shaving cre-"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Be right back!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="adverb"> Apparently</span>, he was.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Unfortunately for Owen, Curt's selfish-yet-smart self-preservation tactics left him in a tricky position. He was alone with Barb -- and a very nervous Barb, at that. Her hands still shook as they remained glued to her face. Her breath was unsteady, as was her placement before him. The poor thing could not rest on her feet. He knew any conversation with her like this ran the risk of going south. People did not think when nervous. They also did not hold back. All it took was a wrong subject or wrong word, and he could land them right back into trouble.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>As if the universe heard his thoughts, Barb chose to bring up Curt.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No amount of steeling himself could prepare him for that unfortunate decision.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I-I usually have to beg him to help me," she laughed, though little humor sat behind the chittering sound. "He must be in a good mood today."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sliding on his own pair of black slacks, Owen knew all-too-well why that was the case. He cleared his throat and shoved the images that brought to his mind aside. His formal mask slipped back into place. "Yes, well, he is a man of many emotions, isn't he? "</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Confusing ones. I never know what he's thinking."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>Well, at least I am not alone in thinking as much</em>. "The mark of a brilliant spy. Cynthia should be proud."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I guess. It'd be nice if it were a little easier to know, though. Speaking to him wouldn't be so difficult then."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I'd wager it isn't that difficult to speak to Agent Mega."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Barb huffed, dropping her hands from her face. "Well of course it's not for you, silly. You're a <em>guy</em>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> It was a blessing Owen's face </span> <span class="passivevoice"> was buried </span> <span class="hardreadability"> in his collection of shirts, for no amount of training or mental preparation could suppress how that left him</span>. It was a blessing he did not <span class="adverb"> openly </span> laugh. If only she knew how wrong she was. If only she knew how that changed <em>nothing</em>. Clutching a cream sweater between his fingers, he forced himself to swallow.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"<em>Ahh</em>. I see."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I get so caught up in how <span class="qualifier"> I feel </span> when I speak to him that my words turn into mush. <span class="hardreadability"> Not knowing what he thinks complicates that </span> <span class="adverb"> exponentially</span><span class="hardreadability">, because what if he thinks I'm annoying, or what if he doesn't like me</span>? What if he <em>does</em>?" She heaved out a deep sigh. "Having to think about that every second is so tiring. You have no idea."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen huffed. Sure he didn't.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Do you by chance know anything about how he feels about me? WAIT!" Barb appeared at the end of Owen's closet. He stood with one arm in his sweater, eyes wide as a doe. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know. <span class="veryhardreadability"> Well, I do, but it would be so much more special if said from those pretty lips of his in that dreamy voice he uses whenever he's undercover...<em>WAIT </em> you heard none of that</span>!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Barb?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Yeah?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Breathe."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Barb made an attempt as Owen slipped on the sweater. <span class="hardreadability"> Finally dressed, he walked forward and pressed a hand on the scientist's shaking shoulder</span>. She jumped, but she was soon calmed by Owen's presence -- or at least rendered unmoving. Owen could work with unmoving.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Without confirming or denying your suspicions, a word of advice?" Owen gave her a pat. "If Agent Mega has something he wishes to say, he will say it and act as such. What he doesn't say is usually withheld for a reason. Live without waiting for that reason. You owe it to yourself."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He could see the cogs of Barb's mind spinning that phrase in her favor the minute it <span class="passivevoice"> was spoken</span>, but he did not complain. He saw her nod. A nod showed understanding. A nod could end the dreadful conversation. To his delight, it did <span class="qualifier"> just </span> that. As soon as she thanked Owen with it, Curt came waltzing in and stopped it in its tracks.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He was a sweaty mess and fresh off of complaining and cursing, but <em>wow</em> was he a sight for sore eyes. If Barb were no longer in the room, Owen would have accepted him with a hug and a kiss so fierce, it would cost him his footing. With her in the room, he settled on a smile.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Enjoy your outing?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "I thought...I thought the month-long supply thing was an exaggeration," he panted, bending over and wheezing in an attempt to catch his breath</span>. "It wasn't. Oh my gosh. Ooo boy."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Barb giggled. "Weaponry fit to stop a nuclear war is nothing if not heavy, agent! But, the good news is that that should be the last for a bit. Also," she clapped, "I snuck a few treats in there to make up for the trouble. I hope you like them, Curt. They include those chocolate-covered pretzels I remembered you raving about!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen had to admit: seeing Curt's face light up at pretzels was precious. As he reached to hug Barb, most likely making her day ten times over, Owen noticed something. He saw the way that preciousness turned into a moment of genuine affection and felt a wave of emotion. It tugged at his heart -- not in the normal jealous sense. He knew Barb was harmless. Even if Curt developed feelings for her, she was no match as long as Owen was around.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>But, something about the public nature of their affection made him long for affection of his own. To get past <span class="complexword"> all of </span> this madness and set up their plans so he could <span class="qualifier"> just </span> enjoy Curt for a little bit. He wanted it, as selfish as it was. Deep down, he wondered if he <span class="qualifier"> perhaps </span> needed it to get through the next forty-eight hours.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>Goodness</em>, he was in it deep.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>His deep-set emotions tore at his formal exterior. They made him less than courteous in sending Barb on her way, leaving the poor thing confused. She tried to speak a few more words to Curt, but Owen's mind was in no mood to hear or pity them. Not when he was feeling like this. In one swift motion, he shut the door behind her, looked right at Curt, and strode across the room to his side. Placing a hand on either side of his face, he poured all he could into a fearsome kiss. Any words Curt held about the chaos of what happened died with that kiss. Any affection resumed its loyalty to Owen.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>All was right with the world</em>, if only but for a moment.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A moment was enough for Owen, for now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"C'mon, love," he finally said once he was out of breath, pulling back to ruffle the hair he fixed for Curt earlier. "Let's talk about whatever that was over breakfast."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Curt looked back at him mystified, only to meet a dazzling white smile.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Breakfast, it was.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>~~~~~~</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt <span class="passivevoice"> was stuffed</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In an apology for the morning's displeasure, Owen cooked a hearty pancake breakfast. <span class="hardreadability"> They indulged in discussion of Barb, as well as how they would prevent future intrusions from her and others, between bites and sips</span>. What Owen provided in rules, Curt balanced with crude jokes. It was a yin-and-yang act Curt never wished to end. Of course, like most things in his life, he could not be that lucky.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen had a game plan -- one he hinted at halfway through the meal. This game plan marked out a firm end, as well as the possible beginning of something more...<em>arduous</em> on the brain. <span class="hardreadability"> At the conclusion of breakfast, Curt understood Owen wanted to discuss his ever-secret mission plans</span>. It was one hell of a time to bring the subject up, in Curt's opinion. He was so stuffed, it would be lucky if any information could fit inside him. How Owen would have the stamina to list everything in a similar state, he had no idea. <span class="complexword"> However</span>, he knew it was necessary. <span class="hardreadability"> He knew he could not immerse himself in the happy domestic situation breakfast presented for too long</span>. Real life called. Real <em>work</em> called as well. Owen knew this as well.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>As if on cue, Owen stepped up to the real-work plate as soon as he finished washing dishes. <span class="hardreadability"> Clasping his hands together, he walked over to where Curt lay reclined on the couch and nudged his feet aside</span>. Space for him clear, he cleared his throat.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "With our arms in place and the mission approaching, I thought it an opportune moment to brief you on what I've come up with</span>. Might we do that now?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt knew that that was not a question he could say no to. Still, that knowledge did not stop him from groaning like a child. Owen, in a flash of sympathy, rubbed his back.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I know, I know. The morning came too early. You're full. You want sleep. But, would you rather lose our final night before the possible re-injury of one of us to discussion?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Curt groaned again. Of course he did not want that. Sleep was just so tempting...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I promise to make it worth your while, love."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>That perked him up.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Predictable," Owen teased. He waited for Curt to sit up before turning his body to face him, folding his legs to sit criss-crossed on the cushion.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"As you know, our agencies wish for us to undertake another undercover mission. This time, our work would consist less of observance and more of stealth."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt gave a cool smile and sent finger guns Owen's way. "I can do stealth, no problem! Stealth is my middle name."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen shot him a look saying it was <em>far</em> from his middle name.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Anyway, they caught word of a gathering of important importers and exporters. It is a casino night at a warehouse not far from here. Jules will be in attendance, but no extra guests <span class="passivevoice"> are allowed</span>. <span class="hardreadability"> Given the recent circumstances surrounding his shipments, the crowd was all for the extra precautions</span>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"So no Veronica?" Curt asked.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
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    <p>"No Veronica," Owen affirmed. "Though, I would not take this to mean she will not find a way in. If she is the mole, she will be watching and listening through another qualified to enter. Understand?"</p>
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    <p>Nodding, Curt crossed his own legs. "So, I'd be schmoozing these...shippers? At the card tables?"</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>"<span class="adverb">Partially</span>. Intel states all men will <span class="passivevoice"> be required </span> to place their belongings in a separate room. It's to protect from the stealing of money and personal items to cheat. <span class="hardreadability"> You will find your way into this room and search for anything suspicious or marking the details of shipments, especially Hawire's </span> . <span class="adverb"> Personally</span>, I would also look for anything hinting toward Golden Eagle."</p>
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    <p>Curt knit his brows together. "No offense Owe, but...it took you days and days to come up with that? I-I'm <span class="qualifier"> just </span> saying," he scrambled upon Owen raising his brow, "that's a routine mission. I've done worse, much worse, even as a rookie! I don't know about you, but it feels like I could do more. I <em>want</em> to do more."</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>"That, darling, was the mission we <span class="passivevoice"> were handed by </span> our superiors," Owen explained. "You are right to say it is basic, because it is. <span class="adverb"> Painfully </span> so. It is going to get us nowhere fast, if at all. That is why, while you appease them with that mission, I will be doing something a little... <em>riskier</em>."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Why do you get the riskier mission?"</p>
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    <p>Owen pushed at Curt's knee, noting his pout. "Come up with your own plan and you'll get access to the fun parts. Though, I must state that this is more of a tactical move than a selfish need for excitement. There is a woman in France by the name of Agnia Kuznetsov. <span class="hardreadability"> Ten years ago, she cut a deal with MI6 offering information on a high-profile case in exchange for immunity on a murder</span>."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"A murder?"</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "She deals with the opium trade and had a bad deal," he explained, waving his hand in the air -- as if <em>opium</em> could be so </span> <span class="adverb"> casually </span> <span class="hardreadability"> brushed aside</span>. "They had their sights on her for a while, but once she provided trustworthy intelligence, she was free. Well, as free as a dame trafficking underground opium could be."</p>
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    <p>Curt blinked. "I'm scared to ask why you brought her up."</p>
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    <p>"I'm curious if Ms. Agnia might wish to cut another deal," Owen purred. If it were not for the fear such an encounter brought him, Curt might have melted at Owen's sultry tone. Instead, he found himself gulping, his dry throat scratchy and bothersome. <span class="veryhardreadability"> "I found through research that she is currently wanted on charges of procuring over a million pounds from the British government's vaults</span>. <span class="adverb"> Probably </span> used to <span class="complexword"> facilitate </span> her business, mind you. No longer having such a charge might be enough leverage to make her talk."</p>
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    <p>"And you think she'd know Maxim?"</p>
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    <p>Owen's smile grew wicked. "If it has to do with money or business, Agnia knows. It would shock me if she did not at least hear whispers considering his ties to the marina. All her business takes place at the docks."</p>
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    <p>"So, let's say she trusts you and fesses up what she knows," Curt posited, leaning against the couch. "Can you even offer her immunity? You're the one working behind MI6's back. Wouldn't that be, like, tricky? Also, how the heck is MI6 not going to know what you are doing? They'll be watching your communicator, Owen. They'll know."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"<span class="adverb">Firstly</span>, I quite like the idea of asking for forgiveness after the fact." Owen tossed him a wink, though it did little to offer him comfort. "Second, as for the communicator, that is where I focused the rest of my seclusion. You see, I inspected my device to try and understand its construction. After hours of tinkering, I found the chip that contains its tracking mechanism. The idea is to place that chip alongside yours so that they see your moves as mine. If they radio in, I will still have full access to speak and make them none the wiser."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What if Veronica listens in?"</p>
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    <p>"Then I hope she panics," he shrugged, cracking his knuckles. "But, <span class="qualifier"> I believe </span> the only device she has access to is yours, so I should be able to move without detection. Sure, she very well may realize I am not there from the start. <span class="complexword"> However </span>, if she does, my previous sentiment stands. I hope not knowing my location causes them more panic than they've ever faced and lets them know we are onto them. And, I hope they take it as a warning to leave you untouched. If they don't...well...I'm not opposed to delivering consequences. I'd die before they tried laying another hand on you."</p>
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  <p>Curt fell speechless.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>He had never seen Owen so...<em>intense</em>  when speaking about him, nor had he <span class="complexword"> witnessed </span> him so in his element as a spy. Experiencing both in such a flash of time left him dumbfounded. Overwhelmed. <span class="adverb"> Slightly </span> aroused, if he was being honest. His plan was brilliant. His thought process was brilliant. <span class="hardreadability"> Curt did not know whether to </span> <span class="passivevoice"> be blown </span> <span class="hardreadability"> away like he was, or insecure that he did not come up with anything to match his brilliance</span>. It was all so much.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>Unsure of what to do about it all, Curt made the only move his frazzled mind could think to make. He reached forward, grabbed Owen by his sweater, and threw <span class="complexword"> all of </span> his emotions into a kiss -- <span class="qualifier"> just </span> as Owen had done earlier.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>This kiss had a different effect on Owen, though. Where the first one made Curt dazed, this one bolstered Owen. It made him firm in his plan and firm in his decision to risk himself over Curt. It gave him an extra gleam in his eye, making him <span class="adverb"> impossibly </span> more dashing. Though Curt remained nervous as sin in the pit of his stomach, he allowed himself to marvel at the sight for a moment. When that moment passed, he took Owen's hands and bent to give each a kiss. The gleam turned into a low burn, and Curt felt poised to blush.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>"You better not go and get yourself killed," he whispered, giving Owen's hands a squeeze. <span class="hardreadability"> "If I trust you to do the risky stuff and put myself through endless heart attacks tomorrow, you better survive</span>. You're gonna fucking owe me, Owen."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chuckling, Owen stole another kiss. "I have no intention of going anywhere or leaving that debt unpaid, darling. Besides, someone has to be there when our dear Barbara comes knocking to put you together."</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>Curt rolled his eyes. "Ha ha. So funny."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
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    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "</span><span class="adverb">Seriously </span> <span class="hardreadability"> though," Owen spoke, all humor disappearing from his voice, "you are okay with this plan, right </span>? You trust me to carry this out?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt glanced down at their hands, still joined between them, and sighed. "Yeah. <span class="hardreadability"> I'm still nervous as hell, and </span> <span class="qualifier"> I don't think </span> <span class="hardreadability"> I'll be happy about not being with you through all the intense parts until it's over and we're safe, but I trust you</span>. Though I've gotta say, if this goes <span class="adverb"> really </span> well and anyone asks? We planned it together. Total joint venture going down here. Carvour and Mega, spy duo, brains and brawn. Got it?"</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
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    <p>"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mega. And I'll be sure to keep you out of it if it doesn't," he added with a wink.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
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    <p><span class="qualifier"> Maybe </span> it was naive of him to encourage Owen's turn back to humor and not pull him back into seriousness. <span class="qualifier"> Maybe </span> he should have focused more on the plan or the possible ramifications of it going wrong. <span class="qualifier"> Maybe </span> <span class="hardreadability"> he should have excused himself to come up with some plans of his own now that he knew he would be alone on this mission</span>. But, that was not something Agent Curt Mega felt like doing as he sat in front of Owen, safe and sound. There was a time and a place for <span class="complexword"> all of </span> that. <span class="adverb"> Frankly</span>, with all he knew about the day ahead, he did not want this point and time to be that place. It could wait until later when the mission did come. He was fantastic at winging things with the A.S.S. -- what stood to say winging it would not work for him this time around?</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Mind made up, he leaned in and kissed Owen on the nose, shoving those nagging thoughts aside. "First the pancakes and now this? You're a man after my own heart today, Carvour."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen received Curt's words with a beautiful grin. "Mmm, <span class="qualifier"> I might </span> be in trouble tomorrow if you can read me so well."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"We've already spoken so much about tomorrow. Can we focus on today now? You said you would make it worth my while if I listened, and I did, so..."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"If you stop whining."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I am <em>not</em> whining!"</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>With a chuckle, Owen stood, keeping one hand joined with Curt's. "Of course not. Let's go, you lot. I'm in a mood to let you choose your reward, and I implore you to capitalize on it."</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Allowing himself to <span class="passivevoice"> be pulled </span> up to his feet and his whiny exterior to fall, Curt beamed. "Lead the way, Owe."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>And so, he did.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>~~~~~~</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>Miles away, tucked into a secret office room, a phone hung off the wall. Heels clicked against the wood at a frenzied pace, rushing fast toward a large wooden door.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
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    <p>A secret had <span class="passivevoice"> been obtained</span>. A way out was now known.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>Last minute plans were set, poised to change the course of the day ahead.</p>
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</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Spying on Turbulent Seas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Our beloved spies part as mission duties take hold. Owen confronts a past laced with danger and long-standing personal grudges. Curt fights to stay alive and afloat as everything he knows is put into question.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Long time, no see :) I apologize for the break - my life has suddenly kicked off, and I wanted to make sure I gave this EVER so pivotal chapter my solid focus. Speaking of, this chapter is a big one - not just in length, but in significance. It raises many, many questions (all of which will be answered in time, my dears &lt;3). It also became so long in my drafts that I decided to split it in two, so do enjoy this first part. It's time to decide who to trust and betray... I'll try and update with part two soon :)</p><p>As always, please let me know what you think &amp; tell me what you think happens next! Enjoy &lt;3 </p><p>(PS: slight trigger warning for time-period specific homophobia toward the end!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Agent Curt Mega was no stranger to undercover missions.</p><p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He would never forget his first. There he was, a wide-eyed rookie, shipped all the way out to Australia with nothing but a mission file and a gun. The A.S.S. had him monitoring a peace conference. Intel stated this conference was a cover for the kidnapping of a high-profile foreign diplomat. Curt's job was to wine-and-dine as many attendees as possible to learn how to stop it. It was a chance to prove himself. Hours of schmoozing and a small gunfight later, he did <span class="qualifier"> just </span> that. In fact, he did so with flying colors. <span class="hardreadability"> Cynthia, though </span> <span class="adverb"> visibly </span> <span class="hardreadability"> appalled by his success, tasked him with more undercover missions in its wake</span>. He excelled in each, sickening her more every time.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The thing was, there was something freeing about being someone else. Curt craved it. When posed as someone else, you no longer carried the secrets of your true identity, or their weight. You could <span class="adverb"> essentially </span> be a blank slate. As a man of many potential devastating secrets, Curt saw this as a welcome reprieve. He enjoyed pulling out his charm as if he were some suave, confident social mogul. It was thoughtless. Easy. A big game. The only consequence to his person in these situations, to the real Agent Curt Mega, was death.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He we was able to avoid death.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>So, he allowed himself to be the A.S.S.' puppet time and time again, enjoying each break from himself as it came.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="qualifier"> Perhaps </span> this was why excitement fueled his drive to the warehouse that night. Once there, he would not be Agent Curt Mega, the spy plagued by his dirty little secrets and an annoying teenager. There, he could be anyone he wanted. He could act like some hero in a movie. He could make Cynthia, in all her unfriendliness, proud. Curt liked the challenge of making her proud.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>And yet, as he pulled up in his A.S.S.-supplied car, fake identity in hand, his excitement fled. In its place sat an odd twinge of apprehension, and to his dismay, it worked quick to consume him. Even more to his dismay was the feeling's source.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He was missing his partner.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Damn him to hell, he was missing <em>Owen</em>.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt reached for his gun, shaking his head. No. No, this should not be the thing distracting him going into such an important mission. He had better things to think about than Owen and how much he missed his company out in the field. He did not <em>need</em> a partner to do anything, especially this. He did fine for years - what made this mission any different?</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Yet, his anxious mind fixated on Owen's absence. It pictured him out there alone. Vulnerable. Unsupported. It pictured his remorse if anything happened to Curt. It pictured his anguish if history repeated itself. Curt would not allow his mind to take that a step further and place him in Sam's shoes. That was dangerous. He <em>knew</em> it was dangerous.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Almost as dangerous as taking his focus off the mission.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>A bullet, fired from <span class="qualifier"> just </span> beyond the warehouse's side door, whizzed by Curt's torso. It landed in the door of his vehicle, blossoming into a small metal hole. Curt knew he was lucky to have missed it. Any pondering of his luck, though, could wait. Where one bullet came, came others. His instincts called him to move, and fast.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sure enough, as he dove behind the next nearest vehicle, two more bullets flew. They <span class="adverb"> thankfully </span> landed nowhere in particular, giving him a chance to breathe.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>Okay Mega, you have to stop this</em>, he thought, pulling out his gun. <em>It's time to stay alive. Owen will kill you if you die before you get inside.</em></p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em>Owen</em>. Curse him, he was thinking of Owen again! It was no time to think about Owen! Hell, he almost died! <span class="hardreadability"> If Owen knew he was cowering behind a car like some kid, sitting captive to his stupid feelings, he would call him out to his assailants.</span> Save himself the embarrassment of association. This was pathetic. <em>Curt</em> was being pathetic.</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Even with this acknowledged, Curt had little idea how to expel him from his thoughts. How could he when his screwing up would directly affect him? He decided, as another bullet soared above, that he needed a compromise. If Owen was going to live in his mind, he might as well become useful.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>So, Curt decided to act as Owen in that moment.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He agreed to let his training take over.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>His gun fired in the relative direction of the bullets. Three shots, one after the other, each more damning than the next, <span class="adverb"> quietly </span> sped through the air. They could have hit anything. He <span class="adverb"> barely </span> aimed. He did not see where his target was. But, he kept quiet. <span class="hardreadability"> He embodied Owen's stoic, collected persona and waited, trusting in his skills to overcome his anxieties</span>. To his delight, it paid off.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>A small yelp of pain, followed by a thud, graced his ear. Curt knew those sounds well. They signaled a downed target. Sure enough, once he felt safe enough to check, a man lay in a pool of blood in the direction of his fire. His gun rested a foot from him, abandoned.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen would have been proud.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Straightening his suit back out, Curt returned to his mind with a shaky huff. He could not afford to do this again. Playing as Owen for a second was fun, but it was not going to save him every time. He needed to get back on his game -- Agent Curt Mega of the A.S.S.'s game. America's best up-and-coming spy. That would be the only way he would <span class="complexword"> accomplish </span> this mission and see Owen again.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Concealing his gun, Curt made a dart for the now-vacant side door.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>~~~~~~</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen remembered his first meeting with Agnia Kuznetsov well.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sat in a holding cell, hands chained to her chair, she was a living marvel. Her blondish-grey locks and pearl necklace shimmered in the fluorescent light. Underneath the grime and traces of blood blemishing her face and clothes, she <span class="passivevoice">was steeled</span>. Poised. Someone <em>begging</em> for a challenge so she could tear it to pieces. Rookie status aside, Owen knew she was a major grab for MI6. <span class="hardreadability">A woman like that could hold many secrets and puppet many men, and her hefty file which sat nestled in Sam's hands said nothing less</span>. He had no doubt that one conversation with her would be worth its weight in gold, or any other item offered up as ransom.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sam led the majority of the discussion. He <span class="passivevoice"> was seasoned </span> enough to know where to turn phrases as Agnia tried dashing past his words. Owen had served as backup. <span class="hardreadability"> He knew he was not </span> <span class="adverb"> fully </span> <span class="hardreadability"> prepared, and his still-growing frame was nowhere near intimidating, but he was quick</span>. <span class="hardreadability"> He caught things Sam missed and worked them </span> <span class="complexword"> in between </span> <span class="hardreadability"> his partner's verbal tactics like a snake luring its prey</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Agnia picked up on this fast. She grew quieter when Owen stepped forward. When he did speak, her pauses between answers grew. He was a mental hurdle she, in all her years of crime, had not yet encountered and could not climb. In the end, when she <span class="passivevoice"> was backed </span> into a corner and forced to strike a freedom deal, he could tell it got to her. He could see in those cold eyes of hers that he scared her.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sam had been so proud. Owen's boss, a distant man by the name of Hugh FitzWarren, treated him to a four-course meal in celebration. Owen preened from all the accolades sent his way. Still, in the dead of night, he wondered if <em>he</em> had failed by instilling such fear in another so powerful. He wondered if it should have been <em>he</em> who sat scared . If <em>he </em>had made a dangerous enemy out of Agnia Kuznetsov, and not the other way around.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Going into this mission, sans Sam and the protection of his new partner, Owen felt that fear return. It ate away at him. There was so little room for error and so much for disaster on his part. It was as he planned, but what if that plan had been too ambitious? What if Agnia's feelings, warm or cold, changed the game in ways he could not plan for? What if he was walking into his demise as such?</p>
  </div>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>What if he should have brought Curt along?</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen could not answer these questions. He did not have logic to combat their pestering, nor did he have a partner to shout them down and distract him. All he had were two guns and a lengthy portfolio of missions to try and boost his confidence. It would be a miracle if they were enough to get him through this.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Then again, it would be a miracle if Agnia agreed to let him get that far.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen ditched his car a few yards from her location, making his approach on foot. <span class="hardreadability"> The most up-to-date MI6 intel marked her </span> <span class="qualifier"> just </span> <span class="hardreadability"> outside Marseille in an abandoned, two-story apartment building </span> . Its paint was chipping and its windows hazed over. <span class="hardreadability"> It was the perfect unassuming building for a terrifying defected Russian crime mogul like Agnia</span>. Owen figured approaching it in a <span class="adverb"> similarly </span> unassuming way would be fitting. A car pulling up roused dangerous suspicion. A man walking up roused pure curiosity. He hoped that curiosity could buy him precious seconds of hesitation and spare his life.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sure enough, as his boots scuffed the roadside, two men snuck out the side of the building. Owen gave them each a small nod, forcing his relief toward their lack of visible weapons in the back of his mind.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Gentlemen," he greeted, cordial. The man to his right, a tall and slender fellow with shaggy blond hair, gave a look to his partner. He seemed confused, but still curious. Owen could work with that.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"State your business."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Each syllable <span class="passivevoice"> was calculated </span> and caked in a thick Russian accent. Owen expected nothing less of someone trained by Agnia. The lady had expressed the same hardened resolve when he questioned her. He swallowed, preparing himself.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I'm an old...<em>acquaintance</em> of Ms. Kuznetsov. I was passing through the area and wished to catch up with her, among other things."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The other guard, a thicker man with black hair and piercing green eyes, looked unimpressed. <span class="hardreadability"> "Ms. Kuznetsov does not <em>catch up </em> without telling us," he sneered, bushy eyebrows knitting together</span>. "You tell lies."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen did not miss the twitch of the tall guard's hand at his side. "I tell nothing but the truth. See, she and I conducted business under the table, so to speak. She would not announce nor request my presence because to do so would be <span class="adverb"> highly </span> unproductive. I reckon I do not need to explain that to you two, given your professions."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The short guard scoffed. The taller one, <span class="complexword"> however</span>, grew intrigued. Head cocked to the side, he took a step toward Owen and looked him over. Owen bit back the sensation of violation his gaze imparted in him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"We lose our lives if you lie, you know. Don't play us the fools."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Then how wonderful you should feel to know I am not doing as such," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. The man stared back at him with scrutiny as his partner grew more impatient. "I do not disregard your training or skills, men. I know Agnia, and she is smart. She has you both trained well. But I also know that Agnia knows me. She will welcome me. I bet your lives they will stay in tact if you let me through. I also bet your lives she will have you both shot if she does not get to at least entertain me. It is your move."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was a complete bluff, but Owen knew he had to try it. It was his best shot of getting anywhere, after all. These men did not seem to know who he was. If he could con them into letting him walk right in, he could bypass conflict and walk straight up to his target. Simple as that. As the blond deliberated, his partner scoffed further and continued spouting distrust.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You are not first man claiming knowledge of Ms. Kuznetsov. Many men claim this, and we have killed many men. We are not blind to such lies. She will not retaliate when hearing death of another."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"He will enter."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Both men turned to the blond. His partner looked at him with his mouth hanging open. <span class="hardreadability"> Owen looked on with a mixture of relief and suspicion, masked with a heavy amount of gratefulness to maintain his cover</span>. He did not understand why this worked, but he would <span class="passivevoice"> be damned </span> if ungratefulness did him in. He nodded out a 'thank you,' getting little more than a soft 'hmph' in return. Owen made a mental note to watch him once he was inside.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Not that the short guy would not shoot, but Owen could spot a plotter from a mile away. This guy? Well, he fit the bill.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He maintained awareness as they marched inside.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>~~~~~~</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Though off to a rocky start, the next phase of Curt's mission felt more forgiving.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p><span class="veryhardreadability">The warehouse was full of liveliness: spinning roulette wheels, the clattering of dice and cards, laughter and glasses clinking</span>. Curt worked well with a lively crowd. Lively crowds took little work to get talking. He found plenty of men willing to chat in no time.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>One insightful lead came from a man named Kiko Lafourve. Kiko ran his own textile business in competition with Jules. <span class="hardreadability"> After expressing good will toward his competitor, he made a harsh comment toward 'some asshole' who was ruining things for the both of them</span>. Curt, sensing an in, pried for more information.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="veryhardreadability"> According to Kiko, the 'asshole's shipments were somehow screwing with port security at their American and British stops</span>. Whenever Kiko's products arrived after his, it would take twice as long for them to pass through. And, when they did get through, Kiko said his men reported strange looks on the security's faces.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Men are never spooked over nothing," he said, tossing down his hand -- a perfect twenty one. "Whoever that guy is, he is no good."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt tended to agree.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Another important story came his way through a construction overseer named Cartier DuPointe. <span class="hardreadability"> At the roulette table, Cartier </span> <span class="adverb"> casually </span> <span class="hardreadability"> asked those around if anyone was missing parts of their shipments</span>. Curt, feigning concern, pressed for more information. Upon checking the books, Cartier said he noted a discrepancy. For a period of seven weeks, not a single raw materials shipment of his made it in full to its destination.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt did not have to feign shock at that one. It was almost <em>exactly </em>Jules' plight.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Five other men, all from varying industries, also ended up sharing similar experiences. Curt noted, though, that not <span class="complexword"> all of </span> these men might be <span class="adverb"> accidentally </span> funneling bombs like Jules. <span class="hardreadability"> Nuclear weapons were not as </span> <span class="adverb"> easily </span> <span class="hardreadability"> hidden in food or material shipments as they were textiles</span>. There was something else going on, something more intricate. He hoped he would find more clues soon.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Sneaking along the edges of the grand room, Curt found a gateway to these clues. It came in the form of a door, simple and easy to miss. He knew as soon as he saw it that this was the one full of guest baggage that Owen mentioned. Nothing super important was ever elaborate on the surface.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>What Owen had not mentioned was that this door would <span class="passivevoice"> be guarded</span>. <span class="hardreadability"> Curt, despite feeling a touch of trepidation with his earlier guard encounter in mind, took this slight complication in stride </span> . He knew based off of his conversations that each event ticket offered safe passage into the room. It <span class="passivevoice"> was customized </span> to the person, so those entering <span class="adverb"> illegally </span> would have no way to access. This meant Curt would have to get creative.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="adverb"> Thankfully</span>, he had a Barb on his side.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>In her magical bag of goodies, nestled right alongside his pretzels, she provided a ring. A note attached to it explained it contained a single tranquilizer dart. Its wearer could, if needed, aim and fire one dart into an enemy's neck. If done <span class="qualifier"> just </span> right, the enemy would see and feel nothing before falling into an hour-long slumber. An hour was plenty time for Curt to get in and get out of the baggage room. He thanked his lucky stars he chose to wear the ring that day.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Bless its perfect matching of his suit.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>As soon as the timing felt right, Curt closed the distance between himself and the guard. Raising his fist, he squeezed his fingers together as instructed. A tiny dart soared through the air and met its target in the guard's neck, not even alerting the man. To Curt's absolute awe, he <span class="adverb"> quickly </span> lost balance and stumbled into a nearby chair. A better outcome could not have happened if he tried. The poor sap looked like he was sleeping.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Not wishing to see if others noticed this 'change of guard,' Curt took his chance. He snuck the key from his now-sleeping friend's pocket and made a go for the door. It <span class="adverb"> quickly </span> unlocked and let him inside. He got to work on the first bag he saw, ready to get this over with.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Bags were, to say the least, boring to rifle through. Most of the time, they revealed little aside from personal items. Curt would often create a little bingo-like checklist in his head <span class="complexword"> in an effort to </span> keep it interesting. His best efforts could only do so much, though. This time was no different. </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Bag upon bag held the usual for any man. A handkerchief. A newspaper, folded up and kept for later. There were a few guns, but nothing Curt would not expect from off the street. That was the police's jurisdiction, anyway. Not his. <span class="hardreadability"> Unless he pulled out a massive weapon of mass destruction, all </span> <span class="passivevoice"> were noted </span> <span class="hardreadability"> and then </span> <span class="adverb"> carefully </span> <span class="hardreadability"> tucked back into place</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>It was not until he reached a hazel bag toward the back that anything <span class="adverb"> truly </span> caught his eye. The bag, owned by a Mr. Forsythe, contained a crumpled map. To the untrained eye, this map was nothing. Harmless. To Curt's eye, it was as good as a smoking gun.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Large red 'X's marked <span class="complexword"> multiple </span> spots across the globe. <span class="hardreadability"> Red lines traced journeys between each X, crossing water and continents in an all-too-familiar pattern to Curt </span>. From France to America, from France to Britain. A stray line going to Russia, ending in a circled 'M,' did little to calm suspicions.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> Curt wasted no time committing the page to memory, kneeling, and adjusting his communicator to scan its contents</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>This was what he was hoping for. The big break in the case that would make it all worth it. It was something like this that would excite Owen to no end. Curt could see him now, beaming and twirling him around as the glee of it all settled in. <em>Happy</em>. He liked the thought of them happy. He liked the idea of their mission <em>turning</em> happy. Forget his earlier fuck up. This could make Owen proud.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>A soft click at the back of his head broke Curt from his thoughts.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Sorry to interrupt, but we need to talk."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>His blood ran cold.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>~~~~~~</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The apartment was, to say the least, a dump on the inside. <span class="veryhardreadability"> Everything was set exactly as it had probably been found: rotted wood panels, scattered trash, stained wallpaper from leaky pipes</span>. It made Owen sick.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He continued wordless behind his 'guides' through the disrepair. They soon reached a faded grey door on the second floor. The door, though nowhere from perfect, looked more put together than the rest of the house. The blond guard gave it three evenly-spaced-out knocks and then cleared his throat. Though soft, a gentle 'come in' cut through the wood.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Agnia stood up the second she caught sight of Owen.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"No," her voice strained against the constraints of age. "No, you are not welcome!"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Owen immediately felt the blond's hand on his bicep. Knowing this meant trouble, he pulled against his grip and stared Agnia down.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You must listen to me."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I will do no such thing," she spat, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "You and your cronies at MI6 do me no good. I wish not to listen."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I bring a deal."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"And I bring no interest." She rounded the table so that her teal heels rested but a foot from Owen. Her eyes, cold as ever, jabbed into his like rusty knives. "Get. Out."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Your last deal worked, did it not?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"It ruined my reputation for months," she snarled, pointing at him with a vengeful wagging of her finger. "Men I had under my control defected <span class="qualifier"> just </span> like <em>that</em>. They called me a liar and a snake. I was free, yes, but I was in a prison of MI6's making. I do not wish to go back to that for some deal."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Even if it saved you from life imprisonment?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Agnia's hair, now stark white and losing some of its shine, flipped into his face as she rebuffed him. "I can function in prison. I cannot function if ruined once more, Agent Carvour. I take it you are no longer a rookie, no? You should understand."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Owen felt hands on him once again. They gripped tighter, and this time, they came from both sides. He was losing. He needed to try harder. Think on his feet. What was it that Sam called it -- toss a lifeline?</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Nine million, five-hundred-and-twenty-two thousand, six hundred and eighty-two pounds."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Agnia's heels screeched to a halt on the floor. They then pivoted, bringing her right before him again. Her gaze was narrow, and he felt her scrutiny try to tear him apart. It took all his training to remain composed.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Excuse me?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"That's the exact amount you stole from the vaults on Monday the twenty-seventh. With that on top of your past offenses, the government could threaten death. They <em>want</em> to threaten death," he emphasized without a blink. "I have seen it in your file, the same one added to that day."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"You're bluffing."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"<span class="qualifier">Maybe </span> so. But, can you afford to find out?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Agnia took another step forward. <span class="hardreadability"> In this suffocating proximity, her perfume -- ancient and repugnant -- worked like a poisonous gas on his lungs</span>. He tried desperately not to cough.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Why would MI6 warn me?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"They wouldn't. But, I would." Owen shook off his captors once more with a huff. They moved to recapture him, but Agnia was quick to call them off. "I don't come acting on their orders, at least not <span class="adverb"> directly</span>."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You are rogue?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Somewhat. I am under strict instruction to finish a case that could mean the end of <span class="complexword"> all of </span> us if not quelled. Their methods, upon my inspection, are not <span class="complexword"> sufficient </span> to do this. I needed to stray if I wished to bring back victory to the Crown."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"So you sought me?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "If there is one thing I remember of our previous meeting Agnia, it is that you are a smart woman who knows more than she lets on</span>. I respect that. It is because of that that I have little doubt you might be able to help me out. It's also what called me to cut a deal with you. You are no good wasting away in a prison."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Oh, you would rather me commit crime?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He <span class="adverb"> cooly </span> shrugged. "Like I said, the success of my mission means saving the world. I would rather catch you down the road than have you and I not live to see another day."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"And MI6 would cut this deal they know nothing about, how?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"You know better than most that they're not opposed to bending the rules." An understanding silence passed between them. "Once victorious, they will make it happen. I know of it."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He actually did not know of it. Owen was quite apprehensive of it all in all reality. MI6 cut deals, but only when those deals <span class="passivevoice"> were sanctioned </span> up top. To offer such a thing as a lone agent was a major risk. He could only hope FitzWarren did not kill him for it. Then again, this was the same man who had sanctioned covering up Sam. A little negotiation was nothing in comparison to that.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>After pausing for thought, Agnia folded her arms. "What are your terms?"</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"The money will disappear from your file, <span class="complexword"> all of </span> it, if you tell me everything you know about Maxim Lebedev."</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Agnia recoiled as soon as she heard his name. But, the offer soon sunk into her mind, and Owen could tell she was too smart not to play into his trap to self-preserve. It was just as it had been before, all those years ago. She was captured. After a pause too long for his liking, she rounded the corner of her desk and sat in her chair. A hand gestured to the one in front of it.</p>
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  <p>"I'll talk."</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>With a saccharine smile, Owen nodded to the disappointed men at his sides and took his seat.</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>
      <em>"Wonderful."</em>
    </p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>~~~~~~</p>
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  <p>Curt could not believe his ears.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Standing there, gun pointed right at him, was none other than Veronica. How she had gotten inside, he was unsure. Sure, he knocked out the guard and left the door vulnerable -- a stupid move to not account for -- but still. He had not heard her walk in. He <em>should</em> have heard her walk in. Her heels -- red today to match her red dress -- should have tipped him off. He supposed that was what he got for taking his eyes off the prize and veering back into Owen land.</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Turning to face her gun with his hands up, he shook his head. "You aren't supposed to be here."</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"But I am," she said with a shrug. Her voice was much less cutesy than Curt <span class="passivevoice"> was accustomed </span> to. No need for flirting behind closed doors, he supposed. "I need to talk to you."</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p><span class="hardreadability"> "I know you're young and all, but </span> <span class="qualifier"> I feel </span> <span class="hardreadability"> obligated to let you know that talking tends to go smoother without a gun pointed at your talking partner</span>."</p>
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  <p></p>
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    <p>Veronica rolled her eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Curt."</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"So the gun is still pointed at me, why..?"</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Would you take me <span class="adverb"> seriously </span> if it weren't?"</p>
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  <p>Curt fell silent. She had a point.</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I want to warn you."</p>
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  <p>Huffing, he raised his brow. "Warn me? About what, pray tell?"</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Your partner. Owen."</p>
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  <p>A murky feeling pooled into his stomach. The last thing he wanted to hear leave her sickening mouth was the name of his <em>real </em>partner. He tried not to let his disgust show. "Owen? Why?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"He's betraying you."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p>"Sure he is. And I am going to sprout wings and kiss Cynthia on the lips." He laughed. "C'mon Veronica, I don't have time for this. You need to leave before we both get caught, or worse."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I have no intention of leaving, Curt. You should have every intention of listening, though, if you don't want your world to come crumbling down."</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"What could you possibly have on him that would make me think for a second this isn't some made-up scheme to trick me?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"He's not here, right?"</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt gazed around them with wide, animated eyes. "Uh, <em>yeah</em>. I do believe I don't see a tall British man in this empty room with us, Veronica."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Snark ignored, she readjusted her grip on her gun. "Pretty odd he isn't given everything that happened with Sam, don't you think?"</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The mere mention of the other man's name was like a sucker punch to the gut. <em>And</em> the kneecaps. <span class="hardreadability"> Curt thanked everything to already be kneeling, because there was no way he could stand hearing that</span>. Hearing her <em>know</em> about that. He stared up at her in hopes to find her bluffing. <span class="complexword"> However</span>, the longer the silence carried, the less Curt believed it possible, and the deeper the dread set in.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I-I don't-"</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Don't act like you don't know exactly who I'm talking about, Curt." She groaned, tossing her head back. "Yes, that Sam. The Sam who he looked away from and let get killed."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"T-That...that was an accident."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"<span class="qualifier"> Maybe</span>," she agreed, "or <span class="qualifier"> maybe </span> that is how he <em>wanted</em> people to think it happened. <span class="qualifier"> Maybe </span> it was planned that way."</p>
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</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I don't understand why you're saying all this. O-Or why you know it. How do you know it?"</p>
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  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I <span class="adverb"> really </span> have to connect the dots for you, huh? So much for 'America's greatest spy.'" Keeping her gun raised and aimed, Veronica walked over to the door and locked it. Curt gulped. "The funny thing is, you already know part of it. Yes Curt, I've had you bugged from the start. You two were right. Congrats! Maxim made sure of it at the gala. Also, thanks to your agencies' lax security, I set up a few things at your safe house, too. They <span class="adverb"> really </span> should fix that sometime. Anyway, I learned all about you both. Even when you thought you were safe, communicators off, I heard. It was <span class="adverb"> really </span> informative."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Curt fell back to rest on his knees, struck with the weight of her words. If she heard it all, she knew-</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"To answer your internal screaming," she sneered, "yeah. I know about that little thing you have going on, too. I'd say I'm grossed out, but I have bigger fish to fry."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You...you can't tell-"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Veronica laughed. "I have no intention of telling, Curt. It's nothing to me aside from an explanation of why my flirting failed on you. Your <em>friend</em>, <span class="complexword"> on the other hand </span>...that secret is dangerous with him."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"No. No, that's wrong. Owen has no reason to tell."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Does he? Because <span class="qualifier"> I think </span> he does. He did with Sam, anyway."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Curt's brows knit together. "Are...are you saying-"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability">"It's pretty suspicious that a man of higher rank disappeared under his watchful eye, only to </span><span class="passivevoice">be scrubbed</span><span class="hardreadability"> from the records</span>. It would take a lot of planning to <span class="complexword">accomplish</span> such a thing. Not to mention, a privileged point of view to gain his trust."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Shaking his head, Curt took to his feet. In doing so, he kicked aside the bag he rifled through. It slid a yard away, out of sight. "Owen's not setting me up to die, if that's what you're thinking. He would never. I-If you listened, you would know he put me here because he knew I'd be safest on this mission! Why would he do that if he wanted me dead?"</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Because you're not scheduled to die <span class="qualifier"> just </span> yet," she said <span class="adverb"> matter-of-factly</span>. <span class="hardreadability"> "Because he needs you to place his full trust in him first before he can go behind your back and take care of his real business</span>. MI6's business. He knows that this mission is a great test of that."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"Even if that was true, if that was his task, why would he still want me dead, huh? Couldn't he make me disappear some other way? A way that wouldn't raise every suspicion ever? He <span class="adverb"> genuinely </span> cares about me, kid. I know it."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Veronica sighed again, this time sounding exasperated. "It's a lie, Curt. He's making you <em>think</em> he cares about you because that is the only way he can sell the con. Think about it. You know the times we are in now. No one wants you around inside the government. No one wanted Sam once they knew what he was. Owen's <span class="adverb"> really </span> good at taking care of that problem. Always has been. Quite the actor. That's probably why MI6 works with him so well."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"You're lying."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"What do I have to gain by telling you this, Curt?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Y-You're <span class="qualifier"> just </span> trying to get me to abandon him," he said, stumbling back. "Yeah! Yeah, you want me to lose my faith in him so it's easier for Maxim, o-or whoever the fuck, to win. Well, I'm not buying it. Fuck that."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Shrugging, Veronica lowered her gun to her side. "I guess you could see it that way. The thing is, Maxim doesn't need you two separated to succeed. He could do that if you're together or apart. You see, we have <em>boatloads</em> of materials and plans, Curt. You two are blips on our radar. I'm doing this for you because, after <span class="complexword"> all of </span> this, I kind of respect you. I don't want you to suffer. Maxim showed me you don't have to suffer over people who betray you. The least I can do is tell you about what I see is coming through my research and make sure you have a chance to not <span class="adverb"> totally </span> fail in the end. My goal in this has never been to make you fail."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Reaching into the black coat draped around her dress, she pulled out a folder. She walked over to where Curt stood and placed it in his hands.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"And if that doesn't convince you...<span class="qualifier"> maybe </span> this will."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Three gunshots rang out seconds later. Curt yelped and jerked back, fearing the burning pain courtesy of Veronica's firearm, only to find himself safe. Veronica stood next to a hole in the floor, gun resting a foot above it. She stared back at him without emotion.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>"I need to make it look like I at least tried."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>She left him no time to process anything more. In a swirl of her dress, she hid her gun and made her escape out the door. As the door slammed behind her, Curt looked to his hand. In black typed font, 'Carvour' stared back at him, damning. Anxiety-inducing. Terrifying.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>For the first time in years, he had no idea what to do next.</p>
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